Spring haibun

They were chopping plum trees down in an orchard by the river, all in full blossom. Disease perhaps, but the sight was shocking. Veiled in white, old trees falling, the orange wound of the stumps harsh against the black bark. Can such beauty be sick? In the distance, towards the flat silver band of the river, a tractor churned the brown earth. The sky was blue except for the dark circling of kites. Silent as death.
Spring unfurls green
winter white a memory
wind-tossed petals.


A day of a million things

So much rain
in millions and millions of drops
we see it fall from far
drifting in veils silver-grey
from shifting clouds
grey as rain in veils
of millions and millions of drops

tree sticks stare
waiting for wind
waiting for sun showers
bud-burst leaping from bough to bough
and the unfurling of the leaves
in millions and millions of banners
veils of green

and the thick air rings
with the belling sound
of returning cranes
and the beating wings
of millions and millions of feathers
a veil of grey
dappled with white hope.