The cherry blossom’s time was brief,
and so our pain, and so our grief;
but yet remains the trunk and leaf,
the spreading roots secure beneath.
So scornful of all outward show,
deeply down our way may go;
flower or wither, yes or no,
sweetly sweet the undertow
that draws us like a corpse to dirt,
underground to hug our hurt;
let beetles’ claws unpick the shirt,
touch the root, with maggots flirt.
For here there lies the source of things;
unseen, eternal springs;
beyond the root the Root that brings
our frail, our surface blossomings.
The cherry blossom’s time was brief,
and so our pain, and so our grief;
but yet remains the trunk and leaf,
the spreading roots to our relief.
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