Spring is restrained in New England;
It isn't a symphony played by a full orchestra
But a well-disciplined concerto.
In New England, Spring stands erect
Inside a tulip.
The breezes do not make me ecstatic;
Instead, they make me smile.
They are not everlasting fields
Through which I want to fly.
But plots of land surrounded by stone walls
Enclosing miniature beauty
As on Japanese fans.