3,500 is the number of haiku I’ve written so far.
Snow looks like frosting weighing down the boughs of the study dark green pines.
Icicles mark time and temperature. They drip and grow. Drip and grow.
A gray day out there. Snow’s coming—I can feel it— the air is heavy.
Two degrees out there — snow pops and squeals when the car moves up the driveway.
Mighty cold out there— architectural sins are covered by fresh snow.
Nose-sticking cold out. Waiting for the big blizzard to slam the Northeast.
