The last week of winter -
Weak winds wafting from the north
Bring the morning chill and the flowers forth.
Whence this strength
To slip from the grasp
Of the season of death?
The flowers scarcely wait
Their appointed hour.
A week early, beneath the moon,
After a night shower spring the blooms.
Still, wrapped in hat and coat I note
How on tender shoots death seems to gloat.
Rain flecked petals in the morning wind
Tell that flowers, too, come to an end.
Though spring comes early and winter fades,
All things, from their beginning,
Show their end of days.
