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Don Miller

Deli Melt

A greenhouse is a warm place to go during the winter. In Indiana I have a friend who works in one, and my sister, Pam, worked in one a while back. I remember when I was at the University I would go to the greenhouse during winter and sit and read or write. Now-a-days I take my lunch at a little horticultural park a couple blocks from my office. There's a flora trail, and it meanders between a gazebo and a pond with a waterfall. Depending on my mood I go there to contemplate or ponder the future, reflect on the past, or mull over the present. If I'm lucky, in that moment I'll land a haiku or tanka. It doesn't matter which one; I'm not really fishing for either. They can't be lured; there's no particular bait to use. But to catch a "rare" one is such a treat, and it's best served fresh on a hand-made, open-face slice of rice paper.

whispers
returning to themselves -
the lonely notes
of a morning dove
mingled with a trickle of water. . . .

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