March.
Not slow, not slow. That's it.
Pacing in all directions.
It is far from the grass on Mo and the warbler flies.
However, everything.
The dust has settled.
I. What should I do to pay tribute to the passing year?
The breeze blows.
Stir up long-lost thoughts.
But there were no waves.
March in the North.
There is no purple and red.
Just a touch of clean plain white.
In the smoke and red dust.
Quiet rippling.
Always believed. As long as you have a good thought in your heart.
Warmth, it will be everywhere.
And such a season.
I. Or hide yourself in a cocoon.
Seem. Escaping a catastrophe.
Time passes.
The wind in my ears. Sent a message.
It was the voice of a hyacinth.
Tell me. This year's flower event is a little late.
Just be patient.
In the bright eyes after turning around.
Surely, there will be surprises.
Maybe. Good things.
It always comes so slowly.
Haste makes waste.
That's the truth.
Something that gets in the eye.
But it's always so far away.
Well, so be it.
There is a sense of expectation in my heart.
It's warmth. 
March, that's all.
With her unique attitude.
Blooming, browsing.
As if to put all the scenery.
After copying. to be able to leave safely.
And I, in this season.
Waiting. A blooming gentleness.
Listen, the affectionate dialogue of others.
All of it.
None of them have anything to do with me.
Walk the road in March.
No peach, no willow green.
But there is a dark fragrance of plum.
It is still in the bottom of my heart.
The curling refuses to disperse.
It seems, muttered.
You are not lonely, lonely.
I will always keep you with you.
When no one is around.
Still like to put the news of spring.
Implant a flat rhyme foot.
Even if there is no color.
I also want to make that side ink.
The beauty remains. Small red letters, a little spring love.
Even if there is no emotion.
And let yourself never get tired of watching.
Because. A person's life.
The so-called perfection has flaws.
Chicken Soup for the Soul