Cherry blossoms

To cherry trees

The world has but one season,
printed along the roots.
Now dry Pacific hills,
now soggy Cordillera,
each in time.


I am certain it was this tree
in each garden of legend;
even fruitless bowers
belled with maidens’ skirts
provide temptation.

In those cool days of blossoms
I sat among the sloping branches
to watch you, not to touch.
I could as easily do that
as trace the edge of evening in the sky.

Better that I know winter
than the cherries;
a blasphemy
to think they would be sweeter
had they ever known true cold.