By Loree Griffin Burns

haiku on spring snow
the neighborhood mice were out
before me, scribbling

spring loneliness—
clutching one warm chicken egg
in each cold hand

direct from the clouds
or waylaid by a pin oak
two types of spring rain

the fancy brick house
is empty now; the tulips
don’t seem to notice

riotous yellow—
missing the girl who called it
“for Cynthia”

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About the Writer:
Loree writes about science and nature for readers of all ages. Back in 2011, during a rainy vacation in Rhode Island, she and her family stopped into a used book sale at the local public library. That’s where she picked up a used copy of haiku master Clark Strand’s Seeds of a Birch Tree on a whim, for fifty cents. She’s been counting syllables on her fingers ever since. You can read more about Loree’s children’s books, essays, and haiku at loreeburns.com.