Spring Loved Ones

Every spring

I ask people at the site of flowers

"What kind of flower is this?"

"What kind of flower is this?"

"What kind of flower is this?"

And then

forget

And then the next year

Then ask someone

And then forget

So that for many years

I felt

I know more than those who know

all the names of flowers

The botanists

I am more of a spring

relatives

Twilight cascades from the rocks of the mountains to the lakeshore.

The shimmering light between the melting snow

Like an invisible and dull dream.

The dead trees and old branches sway in the mist.

Through the village, through the sleepy narrow lanes.

The night breeze drifted warmly and calmly between the hedges.

In dark gardens and young dreams

A spring will blow in.