by Kelly

waiting for news of

his promotion and our son –

we shiver in bed

by Kelly

Sunday morning snow

glitters like sun on diamonds —

We shop for Han Min.

by Kelly

It hasn’t snowed yet,

but it will. Soon. — We wait for

news of Henry Han.

Late last night I created a haiku and scheduled it to post this morning. Of course, as soon I went to bed, my mind started playing that poem over and over in my mind and I came up with a better version. Or what I think is a better version.

But I did’t get into the system early enough today to change it before it went live. Usually, when this happens (this isn’t the first time I’ve thought of a better version of a haiku once I posted), I go into the system and fiddle with my words within the post. By doing this, though, readers probably won’t notice what sort of revisions I’ve made, or what sort of thought process I went through. So this time, instead of just making the changes, I decided to leave the original and then create a new post for the revision in order to reveal my writing process.

I like this second version of the haiku better than the first. The second falls more in line with the idea that a haiku have a break, a switch in perspective.

And I like that even though this haiku has a change in topics that both, really, are about waiting. In the beginning, the waiting is for snow, for a change of season. In the end, the waiting is for news of a child, for news that our adoption match has been accepted and approved by the Chinese government.

Hubby and I are hoping that the snow, when it comes, will bring with it that blessed paperwork for which we are waiting. After all, according to the paperwork we got about our little guy, “Han” means winter.

by Kelly

under frosted tips

the grass is still green — my son

is not yet with me

by Kelly

I tear up over

monkey patterned pajamas

in Costco

by Kelly

ants on peonies —

I envision a swing set

in our backyard

by Kelly

somewhere in China

a child is already born

and waiting for us

by Kelly

Could this be my last

Mother’s Day as a non-mom?

lemon-lime tree buds

by Kelly

the magnolia

next door suddenly full blown —

I picture a child

by Kelly

our diagnosis

won’t change, our perspective can –

for us, adoption