Haiku

The oak turns early
sickness, not autumn, roots bound
in its own weakness.  
 
Strangers with money  
are cooking in my kitchen  
with an old burnt spoon.  
 
Smoke spins with the drafts.  
Wind stirs milkweed. Road washed out,  
I peer through the blinds.  
 
Your hero, I fly  
through furniture, a martyr  
marked with stigmata.