Crabapple Blossoms海棠

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In spring， you don’t have to talk to the crabapple;

let the rain do the talking.

White blossoms， like corners of drowsy eyes，

gaze skyward.

Strange icy droplets，

your fingers spread wide beneath the tree.

At the branchtips， condensing and falling，

is the rain’s incessant reply.

While with your umbrella， you open

many questions.

They can’t be answered;

you don’t understand that a flower doesn’t wilt

from disappointment，

but naturally， furled by the wind.

Still， you immerse yourself in asking.

Springtime is misleading，

and you can’t restrain your doubts.

If a dream is just a dream，

then what’s lost remains lost.

You don’t have to talk to the crabapple anymore;

the rain will do the talking.

As you return your umbrella this afternoon，

what ought to fall， has already fallen，

what is yet to emerge， is not yet emergent.

海棠

在春天，你不必與海棠说话，

让雨水去说。（剩余720字）