Red plum Tom Sharp

1. She blooms late, or not at all, as an icy winter can cut her short. Her blossom’s like a peach or apricot, small, graceful, and fragile. She doesn’t care for the spring; its giddiness doesn’t suit her austerity. I see her green on green and don’t realize she’s a plum tree. 2. She creates her own spring, blossoming to relieve the dreary cold. Rouge is a gift for her suffering. Her endurance invites a deeper meaning. Drops of water freeze on her branches— a necklace of diamonds on her thin skin. She doesn’t need to be an apricot or peach, for she can put out buds when they’re withdrawn. 3. I regret that I haven’t appreciated her. Her delicate stamens are worth the effort. She’s life’s treasure in stricken winter, more charming than spring’s profusion. Her dark buds hold seeds of renewal, penetrating the body like red wine. I ask for a true artist to show her beauty, her slanting branches proudly shining.

红梅三首 苏轼

一 怕愁贪睡独开迟，自恐冰容不入时。 故作小红桃杏色，尚余孤瘦雪霜姿。 寒心未肯随春态，酒晕无端上玉肌。 诗老不知梅格在，更看绿叶与青枝。 二 雪里开花却是迟，何如独占上春时。 也知造物含深意，故与施朱发妙姿。 细雨浥残千颗泪，轻寒瘦损一分肌。 不应便杂夭桃杏，半点微酸已著枝。 三 幽人自恨探春迟，不见檀心未吐时。 丹鼎夺胎那是宝，玉人頩颊更多姿。 抱丛暗蕊初含子，落盏穠香已透肌。 乞与徐熙新画样，竹间璀璨出斜枝。