Walking one spring morning I weighed
the cherry blossoms all brimming with new,
full with such impossible hues
that every petal, every blade,
was like a schoolgirl at her promenade
adorned for but an hour or two
in reds or purples, pinks and blues
before it’s shorn and scattered in the glade.
What lovely waste; what grand largesse.
How deep the bottom of that sound
no human soul can fathom with a guess,
when life and beauty so abound,
nor branch contain all this excess
that flutters pink and crumpled to the ground.