Still They Proclaim, "RED"

Bright blinding sunlight

Blasts through my kitchen window;

I avert my eyes.

Still forsythia;
The longest it's ever been
In this strange springtime.

Even with dark clouds

There's been little rainfall.

Woodpecker thumping. 

Broken down stone fence
Doesn't keep anything out.
Friendly barrier.

Solitary blooms

Hang from the skinny branches;

Still, they proclaim, "RED". 

 

On the neat cut logs
Bright white shelf fungi protrude
Looking quite alive.

Tiny white flowers

Hang from the slender branches

Of an unknown tree.

 

 

Sharpening his saw
Peter sits on his front porch.
The woods are silent.