Pink: (thoughts on a photograph)
Chisato once wrote
That she no longer wanted the pink
Of cherry blossoms, but
“real red, like the blood”.
I found my sakura
In a bargain bin, charmed by the idea,
But unable to imagine, then,
The tree, I bought it
Because it evoked
A distant world, and was cheap.
The gorgeous brocade
Of the springtime unfurls itself –
A pale blue sky with petal clouds.
Time drifts by like the
Falling of this soft pink snow
And the strength of the past falters
As the present grows.
A Japanese lady
Came for tea once, someone Chisato knew,
And gave me a bowl, not the plain style
Favored by tea masters, but dainty,
With a crowd of cherry blossoms
Tipped in gold – celebrate
The ephemeral. If it was a treasure
To her, she left it with a stranger.
How does the heart encompass
The wayside gifts, the fallen
In woman’s path?