cerasus

taken aback that cherry blossoms were still there. tree upon tree, bough upon bough. i remember when the slightest raindrop, like a cartoon tear, could rattle them down, clinging to damp pavement. monotone sky saying: oh no, it is not your time yet. sickly sweet perfume; too sweet, like you, someone says. i am but here for a short time and so are all of us. i want to smash that monotone sky into a thousand shards.

i went to the park and all the cherry trees sang your praises. fluttering slow petals, shaken loose by breezes. one fell at my feet, another on my head. why must i bathe in petals, i muttered to no one. oh, no, it is not my time yet. more and more were falling and more and more clung to me. an unfamiliar warm body. bathe me in the petals, the slow snowfall of pink and white, a watermelon snow, cloaking the heart, as it pumps white and pink just for show.

the petals bathe the slow machine of the body. some of us are the machines that say: oh, no, it is not your time yet. some of us are the machines that say: keep quiet and relax. these machines cannot fix one another; the machines cannot fix a lack, only repeating their ceaseless message in a system of messages. pay attention to it.

pay attention to that wood in that world of the would, the wood of the mature cherry orchard. unword that would with a must: the musk of work to let the blooms fall where they may. separate the juice from fruit and pit from skin. oh, no, it is not my time yet. the wine is too young, it must age and rest. let a must lie on lees in a barrel of would. may might be just around the corner.

---

---

homb

estradiol.cloud