Gray and overcast;
Yet burst of forsythia
Brings back the color.
From thin bare branches
Green leaves open to the sun.
Even weeds look rich.
Driftwood in the stream
Worn relics of former trees;
Now smooth and leafless.
A new bird calls out,
His voice hoarse and persistent.
Where did he come from?
The yellow bus stops,
Its lights blinking into red,
Warning that there's school.
All winter they lay
Covered by layers of snow.
Now they burst upward.
From opposite ends
Of the bright mist covered sky
Crows call each other.
The old dark brown leaf
Has lasted the whole winter
Hanging by a thread.
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