My haikus for February. (The last one says March 1, but I wrote it a day late, so it “belongs” to February.)
#32: 2/1/2015
Snowflakes congregate
above, huddling, before
downward exodus.
#33: 2/3/2015
Ten icy fingers
while the rest of me is warm.
Seriously, hands?
#34: 2/3/2015
Moon in the branches,
blind eye searching for her mate.
Cardinal calls for dawn.
#35: 2/4/2015
Whitewashed winter sky,
sparkling fields of white below.
In between, my breath.
#36: 2/5/2015
Coffee pot babbles
in the last hour of night,
sighs, and goes to sleep.
#37: 2/6/2015
Some wretched mornings
blossom into sterling days
if I tend them well.
#38: 2/7/2015
Old train tracks cut through
the town like a telegraph
from a harder age.
#39: 2/8/2015
Tired in spirit,
tired in limbs, head, and heart,
still upon the path.
#40: 2/9/2015
Read the signs, dear one.
Auguries and meteors:
something is at hand.
#41: 2/10/2015
Neurons are empty.
Signals flicker back and forth
to no great effect.
#42: 2/11/2015
These gentle rhythms,
day upon day, breakfast, bed,
stretch on year to year.
#43: 2/12/2015
Look out the window.
Framed in proper rectangles,
all the savage world.
#44: 2/13/2015
After the movie,
scenes and songs still flicker on.
Life is epilogue.
#45: 2/14/2015
First sip of cool beer.
Spicy aroma, dark glass,
a toast to winter.
#46: 2/15/2015
Dinner together,
husband and wife on the couch.
Rare steak and brownies.
#47: 2/16/2015
Different kinds of cold:
subtle chill in frosty air,
or bone-biting ice.
#48: 2/17/2015
No one is certain.
Scientists, prophets, teachers.
No one knows for sure.
#49: 2/18/2015
Comfortable inside,
looking out at frigid dark.
Forgot to get mail.
#50: 2/20/2015
Mexican dinner,
friends celebrate the week’s end.
Smell of Corona.
#51: 2/20/2015
The front doorbell rings.
Betsy and I lack nothing;
who upsets our peace?
#52: 2/21/2015
Fog in the darkness,
fellow cars all rushing by.
Where are they headed?
#53: 2/22/2015
Newly painted room
welcomes me with muted hue.
Just one shade of gray.
#54: 2/24/2015
Eating veggie soup,
vibrant garden potpourri.
Someday, winter ends.
#55: 2/24/2015
Squeak! goes the old chair,
not caring if it gets oil,
singing its old song.
#56: 2/26/2015
Talk grammar to me.
Pronoun antecedents, yeah.
Conjugate that verb.
#57: 2/26/2015
Betsy and Brian,
orbiting each other like
new binary stars.
#58: 2/27/2015
Dishwasher chortles,
furnace breathes, dryer rattles.
Evening symphony.
#59: 3/1/2015
End of the weekend,
Sunday blues creep on like fog.
Monday starts anew.
Brian D. Buckley 
Haiku #46… I want to know which one of you is rare steak and which one is brownies?
Yeesh…I don’t think *I* want to know what kind of foods we’d be. 🙂
“Talk grammar to me.
Pronoun antecedents, yeah.
Conjugate that verb.”
Yes. My new mantra. I once tossed a book (written by a blog buddy) because of bad handling of pronoun antecedents.
“Smell of Corona” made me think of cigars. Not that I’ve ever spent any time with cigar smokers, but I have always resisted Corona beer because it was such a yuppie fad in the 1980s and there were strict rituals about how you had to drink it.
It’s beer, for crying out loud, not some fancy wine tasting or religious ceremony. My idea of a sensible beer ritual is putting it in my mouth and swallowing it.
Fortunately I seem to have avoided such beer-related rituals. The only Corona “thing” I’ve heard about is drinking it with lime, but that’s always been a personal preference among my friends, never a requirement.