Early spring frost glazes budding Yoshino cherry blossoms.
Glittering, glittering in late morning, under a chilly sun.
Mid-afternoon warmth destroys the illusion.
Crackling ice tinkles to the ground.
Melting, dissolving into the dirt of death.
A violent protrusion of crocus greens extrude
Soil particles still damp with melted frost.
Purple, white, yellow hearts wave banners,
As if in appreciation.
What became of my Yoshino cherry blossom?
Can I still rejoice in hope?
Must I await the Gardenias,
My Lily of the summer?