Late Night Haikus

This expansive prose,
like a seven-gabled house
amidst hawthorn trees.

Coquette playing coy,
the moon peeks out from her veil
to wish me sweet dreams.

He was slow-minded
like frogs squatting on asphalt
after heavy rains.

(To an overrated author)
To quote or to quaff
when calling the wind by name?
No clever fox, him.

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