A puddle is about the humblest body of water there is, and Dave Bonta's four haiku make it carry a surprising amount. Across the sequence it goes from a joke about shrinking to a mirror for the sky, then a companion, then a small creature to be comforted. By the end the reader is rooting for it.
The first haiku sets the tone with dry humour: "frog pond / reincarnated / as a puddle." Reincarnation is usually a grand idea, a soul moving on to a new life, but here it is a demotion. The pond has come back smaller. The long, solemn word "reincarnated" sits in the middle of the poem like a pompous visitor between two plain, short phrases, and the deflation lands in the last line. Readers who know Bashō's famous frog poem may hear a faint echo in "frog pond." Bonta's pond has no leaping frog and no splash, only what is left afterward.
The second haiku turns from comedy to something quieter. "Enormous dead oak— / so much more sky / in the puddle." The dash works like a hinge. On one side is a huge, lifeless tree. On the other is the puddle, which is full of light. The word "more" suggests a comparison, and judging by the imagery, the dead oak no longer blocks the view with its leaves, so the puddle can hold a wider patch of sky. A loss on land becomes a gain in the water. The haiku also plays with scale. The largest thing in sight is dead, and the smallest is holding the sky.
The third haiku brings in the only living creature in the sequence. "Lone firefly / only the puddle / returns his blink." A firefly's flash is a signal, and the poem lets us feel how unanswered it is. The words "lone" and "only" echo each other, and their long, hollow "o" sounds seem to stretch the loneliness out. Then "blink" arrives, short and sharp like the flash itself. The puddle's reply is only a reflection, but the verb "returns" makes it sound like an answer. Calling the firefly "his" also gives the insect a personality, so the moment feels tender, not merely observed.
The fourth haiku is the only one with a speaker. "Fear not / storms are on the way / little puddle." The voice sounds almost biblical in its first two words, yet it is speaking to a puddle, which gives the line a gentle absurdity. What makes the poem work is that the reassurance is also true. For a puddle, a storm is not a threat but a refill. The ending answers the first haiku's joke. The reincarnated pond will not stay small, because the water is coming back. "Little" is affectionate, and it hints that the speaker has been watching this patch of water long enough to care about it.
The form supports all of this. None of the haiku rhymes, and none follows a strict five-seven-five count. Most lines are only two to five syllables, so the poems are even sparer than the traditional pattern. The sparseness leaves room for the reader to supply the rest. Verbs are scarce too, and the first haiku has none besides "reincarnated." Meanwhile the word "puddle" appears in every haiku, like a refrain, and it moves up in importance. It is the punchline in the first poem, a container in the second, an actor who "returns" a blink in the third, and finally someone being spoken to. The soft, doubled sound of "puddle" also contrasts nicely with the hard "frog pond" at the start, as though the water has been worn smooth.
What makes the sequence worth reading is how much it does with so little. It treats something most people step around as worthy of attention, even affection. It also quietly follows a cycle of loss, reflection, company and renewal, which fits the idea of reincarnation the sequence starts with. The poem suggests that smallness is not the same as insignificance, and that a patch of rainwater can hold a whole sky.