to watch the cherry blossom trees
performing Spring ballet of delicate pink tutus
swaying gently to the music of the breeze.
Natural movement and color attract admiration
for confirmation of beauty
inherent to the mystery of life,
revolving the way it does
from beginnings to endings
then repeating its circular pink dance.
I don't have a cherry blossom tree.
I have an old peach tree, happy just to be.
He's wise, secure, well rooted.
His blossoms are fewer now,
his fruit less sweet.
Still he dances in the Spring
full of hope and potential,
satisfied to approach the end of his cycle
knowing he lived a work of art.
It's all mesmerizing.
(For Poets Unted.)
There's an old peach tree in my yard.
Its blossoms still have color