Rising Wisps

My near-frozen breath rises above me.  I scratch a small circle in the frost on my bedroom window, look out at the snow that has flocked our neighbor's trees.  Even inside there is the ozone smell of cold fresh snow.

our first storm together
listening for creaks
in the old roof

Sunlight gleams through cracks in the weathered clapboard siding.  Thoughts of chores and skiing.  I slide out from the warmth of covers, pull on stiff, icy clothes, open the door to a glistening white yard.

the smell of sweet hay -
steam rising
from the barn floor

Amidst the rising sounds of wind, we set out cakes, a teapot with steam rising from the spout.  The mug's warmth flows into my hands.

sixty-fifth birthday -
snow-white wisps of hair
dangle above my tea

Francis Masat, Simply Haiku, 2:4, July-August, 2004.