As a wave breaking then breaking then breaking
and, finally, falling, dispersing on the sands,
the red azalea bloomed then the crimson
camellia, the purple magnolia
and the white weeping cherry – its blossoms,
the silk folds of its petals, April’s winds
and showers were scattering like snowflakes.
After, the unfolding flesh of the leaves,
contoured like malachite, sturdy as stone
seemingly, seduces. How can this surprise
more and more each year, as if unknown, unseen?
A grasping of life before the last clock
– tickety tock, tickety tock – strikes?