Haiku

Twisted juniper
tortured under hot sun
seeking hidden wells

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For a dear friend, last February:
Snow on black-barked trees --
I stare into the cold night
wrapped in your absence.
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On a long drive home from Michigan, I took a nap in an unlikely place:
Old cemetery,
white stones scrubbed of dates by wind.
I nap with the dead.

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Black shadows gather,
a feathered corpse on the road,
a mourning of crows.

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I hold out my hand,
its palm open and empty.
The hand is my gift.

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I stand on my head,
can almost see your logic...
Is that a Dali?