After the wind and rains,

The Sun had stretch

into the damps and moist from the night,

under the sky pleasently bright 

while birds were chriping in the fragnant breeze,

I couldnot help the memory of old spring age,

 counting roses that had shed and bloom

I smiled for the glistening dews and flower hues,

my eyes then caught a reflection above my happy face,

bleached off its not so black, not near to brown shade,

in the newly cut frizy hair,

a single strand, not as sharp as white, yet a step less to black

 tranforming color in full length,

I stare it a long gaze, 

at a age, 

that I hesitate, 

in the reminiscence of youthful mornings, that was my first grey hair.