I'm waiting on the cherry blossoms,
which gives their famed impermanence a backwards spin.
But this year spring is slow,
developing in motion slower than desire intends or memory is remembering.
And so it's May already, not every
tree is blossoming, and even ones that are, are blossoming sporadically
and look like far-flung stars seen through a
mist of a greenless wintergreen breath.
Looking from this point of view, I
see that even nothing doesn't last, although it lingers in each stop of breath
and permeates the daily happening
with deepest sleep. But that's subjective to some other transportation.
Right now, I am the cherry blossom,
slow in learning what I am but incandescent in the natural lucid being I'm
intended
as a cherry blossoming to be,
delicately universal and singularly nuclear in knowing the unknown.
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