and one to grow on

seventy-three . . .

now what was I going

to say . . .

birthday-ku

birthday wish

smoke rising from the candles

just blown out

wind chimes

winter rain

wind chimes glisten

silently

I recently workshopped this haiku, and one reader, a good friend and a fine poet, questioned "silently" on grounds that the rain isn't silent. I honestly didn't find this objection cogent, and neither did any other participants, as far as I know. But I always pay attention to this person's comments, and I've been thinking. The result is what follows. I consider it an alternate version, perhaps an entirely independent haiku, because I don't intend to scrap the original. But I'd be glad to get responses.

wind chimes glisten

winter rain

the only sound

Jan. 29: And here, a few days later, is another version, suggested to me by Lorin Ford and Jane Reichhold (A friend once said, "Writing haiku means never having to say I'm finished.").

winter rain

wind chimes

glisten

two a.m.

two a. m.

a quarrel floats

past my window

construction

on the sign

at the construction site

a split infinitive

Just before Nightfall

just before nightfall

winter branches

scribbled on the sky

West Virginia

notes from underground

prayers for the living

from those about to die

a few for the season

1

the year's last morning

a jet climbs

a fading contrail

2

last day of the year

a hawk finds a path

in the empty sky

3

new year's morning

facing the question

in the mirror

4

no shadows

on the unbroken snow

cloudy new year's

Let's make this year a good one.