heavy in my hands, I hold a bunch of spearflower berries; drip, drip, drip red juice
the only tea flowers I will see this season are boiling in my tea pot
why roses! so fresh and fragrant and in bloom – so out of season
there is no redder shade of red than that of nandin berries against a sky of grey
with soup of turnip I cure the tragedies of winter – melancholy and flu.