The First Buttercup

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's gray and cold out;
Should I leave or should I stay?
(Procrastination)

 

 

 

New birds fly to eat;
Their wings flutter differently;
Struggle to ascend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Bent over in gray
She becomes part of the field
Near the grazing cows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first buttercup
Unveils its radiant face
And shines on the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some forsythia
Don't hear the call of summer--
(They think it's still spring.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The three reflectors
Bending back from each other
Like a hand of cards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Roadside virgin land
Bursts a thousand shades of green--
Yerry Hill tundra.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dripping with yellow,
Myriad blooms opening--
(Just a roadside plant.)