The bird cherry shakes
in a summer gale and drifts
a snow of petals.
I find one floating on the dark waters of the Wbx pond. It reminds me of Ezra Pound's In a Station of the Metro:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Reading this again after many, many years makes me wonder if I should write a haiku too. About a petal on a wet, black pool, but Pound's lovely, disembodied image, though maybe not a haiku, will long float in my mind far above anything I could manage.