My Zen Garden . .

 I dreamed of white sand

Raked in watery ripples,

Embracing black stones. 

Awaking, I found

 Winter, that sly old Zen monk,

At work in my pond.

Forsythia - re-post

Shawled in morning fog,
The distant mountain sleeps -- no
Shout disturbs its peace.

The shoots of the forsythia, thick with yellow flowers, are like fireworks exploding, spiralling outwards in joyous abandon.

It seems to me that the sight of all that golden glory should rightfully be accompanied by glad shouts -- something like the verse from Job --"The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

Shameless Haiku - Magpie Tales

"Of course," said the English professor, "flowers are nothing more than sexual organs.  Remember this in your study of poetry." (Emory University, 1960.)

~~~

Daffodil trumpets

Blare . . . blatant they sing,

Come and ravish me . . .

Flaring bright signals,

 Seductive sirens of Spring,

Lure an early bee,

Who, bumbling, plunges,
Blind obedience humming
To April's decree.

~~~

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Flora

Fresh fragile blossoms --

Azaleas don pink and white
Ruffled dancing skirts.

Afternoon sun gilds
Green tree tops; a blue bench calls
The weary weeder.

Black stripes . . . orange . . . and white . . .
Is that a tiger lurking
In the purple shade?