Lana Hechtman Ayers

     a haibun

Sudden moonlight slipping out of night sky’s sleeve of clouds. I want to name it foolhardy, but isn’t it something else? The mirror that holds your beloved’s breath after they’ve gone. The ladybug circling the glass of a sealed window. Lonely frog singing his late autumn song. All of these & also the withered lobelia that no longer velvets our eyes with purple.

remembrance
only a few kisses 
of rain

Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over a hundred and fifty poetry volumes into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. Her work appears in Rattle, The London Reader, Peregrine, and elsewhere. Her newest collection is The Autobiography of Rain (Fernwood Press, 2024). Visit her online at LanaAyers.com.