I fear I’ll never have the patience of the cherry blossom
never harbor such genuine dedication of that symbol of pride.
What innate drive (or is it stubbornness?) ferried
between branches bare in winter to adored and worshipped
in spring. What ceaseless optimism furnishing that fragile beauty
so helpless against the spring’s tears or a stiff wind,
turning to a faded blanket of pink dying upon the ground.
Such magnificence soon forgotten, washed away
by monsoons and the thrumming reign of cicadas in summer,
only to be respected once more in fall as the last signs of life
fade to orange before the oblivion of winter rests the cycle.
No, such a brief affair, desperate and sincere though it may be,
such a whirlwind flight between the branch and roots
would churn my wooden heart to stone, the loneliness
between the seasons too much for my simple limbs to bear.