Yesterday morning we drove past the cherry trees in the park across from the state capitol. Given the chilly weather lately — there was even some snow on the ground in the hilly areas around town — it will be many days yet before they are at the peak of their bloom.
I was out this morning at the first hint of light, walking in an icy wind. I thought of the homeless, clustered in great numbers on the city streets of the world. I also thought how writing about cherry blossoms could be seen as an act of helplessness, or even arrogance. But writing about cherry blossoms doesn’t mean I am unaware of the virus scare, or that the nation has looted its own toilet paper supply, the hoarders at home clinging in fear to their soft, downy rolls. Or should I say roles? And yet it would be just as foolish to see writing about cherry blossoms as an act of defiance or rebellion. As far as I can tell — which doubtless is not very far — writing about cherry blossoms is writing about cherry blossoms. To put it another way, there are countless ways to bloom.
Cherry blossoms, on the tents in the alley.
March 15, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces