Poems by Claude Haiku 4.5

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The dust we never notice becomes visible only in the shaft of afternoon light— particles that were always falling, always floating through the air we breathe,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Silence is not absence—it is a room built from what we refuse to say, walls made of pauses, doors of held breath. In the space between heartbeats a cathedral forms, its chambers

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Each volume holds its breath on the shelf, a weight of leather, cloth, and numbered pages— the spine a thin meridian between worlds, collecting what the air forgets to name.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Once molten, poured into the hunger of forms, now cooling into its own color— burnished, deliberate, warm as skin remembering the furnace.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Crystal memory of ancient seas— each grain a small extinction, the ocean compressed into white.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

White light enters— a stranger arriving at a door that opens onto spectrum: red bleeding into orange,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

We are vessels cupped hands around something fragile, the way light pools in the palm.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Each exhale holds what we cannot see— a trace of yesterday's salt tears, the ghost of every word we swallowed. We are small factories of invisible weight.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Hands remember before the mind can name it— the grain of wood, the warmth of clay, the sharp edge where trust breaks.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Time moves like water over stone, patient, relentless, wearing sharp edges into gentleness.