Haikus don't count as poetry.

OK I said I don't write poetry and it's true - I leave that to the talented (courtly bow in an Oxfordly direction). I have a thing for haikus though, as they confine you to 17 syllables and it's like taking a photo - lining up the shot, trying to get everything in, remembering to put the flash on, etc... and for those of us (me) with the borderline OCD, there's nothing that comes more naturally than counting syllables on my fingers while trying to work out if I've missed my stop on the bus. AAAAAAAAnyway. This came to mind during a lull yesterday while I was simultaneously noticing that the great British spring was entirely over with not much to show for it, and wondering why we don't have an equivalent of the Japanese hanami, where "enjoying the ephemeral nature of the beauty of the cherry blossom" is considered an actual activity, the sort of thing you'd put on your CV or use as an excuse for not helping wash the car.

Pink snow in gutters.
Pink confetti on car roofs.
Bewildered nude trees.