Haiku

The car flew over
the scrubby cliff and crashed on
the frigid, worn shore.

All that I could read
was "James," etched in stone over
the powdery snow.

Roses crawled and clawed
their ways up the trellis and
bloomed in the bright light.

A single leaf, if
it blew over the sidewalk
just right, could move me.

Murky waters lapped
the shore of the oily day,
mourning the dead ducks.

Nothing is so sure
as the lavender moment
when the lightning strikes.

Standing tall against
the chill wind, a goldenrod
quietly suffers.

An errant lizard
would taste in the warming soil
the dregs of winter.

Each haiku is it. None of them carry into the next verse or anything. The dividing line is meant to show that the first five were written around the same time, and the last three were written around the same time.