Haiku

I can smell the rain
and, somewhere, freshly cut grass
on 9/11.

Shifting shafts of light
the hand of God across the
mountains, dark then light.

Shhh! Furnace! I want
to hear the rain! It's cold but
the window is open.

Haiku wakes me up
5 a.m. I roll over
and go back to sleep.