
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.

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