Home Has No Season

Gray sky, rain threatens;
Still, it is good to be back.
Home has no season.











White is the birch tree
That hovers over the barn;
Thick the cloud blanket.












Strange orange berries
Float above forsythia.
Coming or going?

Clutching weeds and grass,
Children wander through the field,
Stare at their treasure.

Once this had a job--
Holding something up, perhaps;
Now a sculpture piece.

Three old yellow blooms
Hang from forsythia bush.
(Six months until Spring).










Bud swells on tree limb;
Seems like it's ready to bloom.
Season confusion.

Bird hops in branches;
There's no longer shelter here
In this naked bush.