Rain falls in threads of silk; 

Willows blush with gold.

The breeze lingers at the lane's end,

Brushing off the dust of winter,

Slipping into the sheer robes of spring.

At 23:51 today.

The season of Rain Water descends.

Geese drift north as warmth returns.

The howling gale yields to silence,

Washed away by gentle sun.

In the fine mist of the early year,

Life stirs in the damp earth.

Sweet rain lands softly.

Where the wind sighs, willows flush green.

Tender buds speckle the wood.

Apricot blooms, snug in velvet coats.

Magpies pair upon the eaves.

Trading verse for verse.

Sharing the tidings of the spring.

As the old saying goes:

With the rain, the plow.

On southern ridges,

Rapeseed shoots climb in silence.

Wheat seedlings, drunk on the fall,

Grow deep in the night—

Listen close, you hear the green stretching.

By the fence, at the wall's foot.

New chives pierce the loam.

The first tender taste of spring,

Waiting in the dew.

"Good rain knows the season."

Falling when the spring is born.

It seeks no quarrel with the sun,

Nor fears the cloud's gray shadow.

In this soft feeding,

A quiet truth flows:

One small step.

Light and slow.

Walking into the lush.

Warmth returns, yet the chill clings.

No rush to shed the winter wool.

Wrap the body warm.

Set the heart at ease.

Simmer the congee. Turn a page.

Wait for the clearing sky.

Spring bamboo, sliced thin.

Bean sprouts, tossed fresh.

Simple fare.

Sweet upon the tongue.

Where the wind trails,

Grass turns green.

Drips from the eaves,

Gather in little streams.

Spring does not rush.

It arrives with grace.

In this quiet, bright time.

Let a good rain fall within.

Let buried hopes break the soil.

Full of light.

We step out to meet the new.