Ah, how beautiful the spring!
Like golden Venus
Awakening from the water,
Unfurling like the freshest
Rose, already in full bloom.

Alas, such descriptions
As I have often heard,
So effusive and bright,
Ignoring the season’s inner struggles,
Her hard delight.

Ah, how sickly is the spring
Lying beneath the cloud cover,
Holding her breath,
Until summer’s laughing hand
Unfreezes her.

I am the spring, stepping outside
After a long illness.
I stand and gape at the trees;
The white clusters on the branches
No longer snow, but flowers
Reaching out into the twilight sky.

I pluck a cluster from the nearest branch
And tuck it behind my ear;
No one noticed,
Just like no one saw the black and white cat
Slip between the bushes.

I walked in the haze of lantern-light
On the path down to the stream
It rushed on sharply over the rocks,
But there across the bridge
I saw a vision of daffodils
Just like Wordsworth said.

I dropped the cluster in the stream,
It barely had a scent
She’s saving it for summer,
But still her beauty keeps
Just like the tea that steeps

There’s meaning in the growing
That creeps up from the cobblestone;
And beauty in the invalid
Who sings her waiting song.