Phantoms rule the sky,
Covering all the mountains
With a blue gray mist.
Can it be brighter,
The forsythia outside?
Each day more brilliant.
By what force battered,
This proud stand of Pampas grass
Flattened to the ground?
Stretching their fingers
Into the mute blank gray sky:
Silhouetted trees.
Soaring above me--
Wild geese follow the leader--
Perfect formation.
At base of the pole
A strange yellow blob resides;
(Why does it sit there?)
Sun shines through the mist;
Not a brilliant "breaking through",
Just a milky glow.
Crocuses are gone;
Their week long span of brilliance
Waits another year.
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