A Haiku That Forgets About The Seasons Poem by Andrew Lee

Can a haiku grow up in a nonconformist season,

not listening to the count of syllables and political slogans,

not heeding the hooks of question marks

and the swords of an unseen samurai?

Did someone call me a haiku hunter who roams

in a place without spring, summer, autumn, winter,

without the moist lips of cherry petals

and without the kisses of a Japanese mermaid?

Alright, I'm a haiku bullfrog who runs away from labels

by plopping into a pond far away from Toyko.