Spring pruning;
The apple tree, the day moon and I
Spending time together--
We trade our dreams
About shaping our futures.

Donna

Fallen petals fade
as the peach tree's leaves mature,
along the river
the silver-grey egret
has returned, alone this time.

Nick

In her hair
Lands the petal wafted
From the rising wind--
The robin's mating song lifts
Through uninhabited branches.

Donna

So hot today
the young bush warbler has fled
far up the valley,
there are few people to hear
how mellow his voice has become.

Nick

A familiar road...
red poppy fields pass through
my daydreams;
filled with the passion we felt
when driving to our first home.   

b'oki (Bette)

In the garden,
a robin shortens her worms
on a stepping stone--
the handprint of a child,
given on Mother's Day.

b'oki

As Spring approaches
the world seems to awaken
tentatively--
the small buds of the pear
unfurl slowly in the sun.

Hortensia  (topic--arriving spring)

In withered reeds,
The honking of mated geese
This early sunrise;
Already the edges of frost
Melt in early spring warmth.

Donna  (topic--arriving spring)

Winter drought broken
by a slight spray of rain:
How long must we wait
for March or April showers
to bring May flowers?

Richard  (topic--arriving spring)
 

Rain falling
one drop at a time;
its coldness--
the leisurely pace
of approaching spring.

Kit  (topic--arriving spring)

Weeping willows
put out their new strands--
A fresh greenness
in the swampy pools
behind the stone wall.

Richard  (topic--new life and water)

Their beauty
has all come to nothing--
tattered blossoms,
blowing along unnoticed
by even the wind.

Kit  (topic--blossoms)

A pair of woodpeckers
Tapping on different trees--
Such hollow sounds!
These promises of spring
Yet snowflakes fall through buds.

Donna

The river rising
in time for the occasion--
the first day of spring:
an old freighter, seeming distant,
softly recedes into the mist.

Sarah

Despite the wind's force
thick layers of fog remain
in this chilly dawn--
the only sign of spring,
the cry of returning doves.

Paul

What mystery hides
behind these lingering clouds?
Only endless rain
that splashes on my windows,
blurring both night and day.

Paul

What joy would there be
if soft blossoms did not wither
as the season turns--
each moment becomes more dear,
not sure when the last will fall.

Paul