Randominity

The cherry blossoms bloomed beneath the sweet spring rain
Beneath those spreading boughs, I stood
Drenched and happy,
White petals gathered at my feet,
Droplets glistening on my upturned face.
I thought, Ah here is joy enough to last me -
Here is spring eternal.

The summer came; the cherries bloomed
Far, far away from where I walked (in search of spring again).
Other hands gathered them,
Other lips ate them,
Other ears bore them, nestled in dark hair.

Autumn shimmered fiery light
To strip the cherry tree of all his finery.
Snow flew instead of rain,
Froze and did not nourish.
We froze together, although apart.

To the cherry tree I came again -
To see bare branches lifted high
Against the pale, chill light.
Prickled boughs, prickled brow
Where once I had known a fleeting happiness.

The spring is slow in coming.
I cannot seem to see it.
My steps take me away from my sweeping tree
To look for other spring, false spring,
Speck of green, needle thin poking through the snow.

Do not stray so far from me!
The wind keens through the thorny crown,
Spring is coming, though winter here,
Wait but a while for the rains
To wash us new once more.

I have tended many trees;
Bent my back, dug within the soil,
Planted seedlings and cared for them.
I have tended many trees,
I tell the keening wind.
I have tended, but never reaped.

(I look for false spring,
For the shoot I did not plant
To reap what little fruit I may steal.
Although it be bewormed -
I may claim it mine.)

Come back to me, the wind keens
Ever distant as I retreat
Following a patch of blue, like a pool of still waters
In the cloudy dome of Heaven.
Come back to me.

My heart rebels against my feet,
I stumble and land upon the snow.
Behind me my steps spread out
To reveal my drunken reeling
Far away from shelter.

I have tended many trees,
I answer. But the wind snatches my reply -
Tears it into tatters from my lips.
I fear I shall lose happiness,
I say with better truth, and the wind lets me speak.
I fear other hands will reap.

My hand touches upon an early weed,
Jaunty, jaundy dandilion
With thorny leaves, diffracted blades -
A feast ready for the taking.
Come back to me,
Come back to me.

What will you want? I ask the keening wind.
(My hand wraps round the dandilion
To pull it roots and all from the ground.
Perhaps it will pull me into the earth
Where the wind cannot steal my lament.)

What will you want?
I long to say that I am ageing, I am tired.
I long to say that my bones want to gather themselves
Beneath the spreading cherry's boughs, within his very roots,
To slumber there until that final slumber.

But I have tended too many trees
And reaped from them naught but further toil.
Can I bear to tend to one who will not shelter me?
I am ageing, and the weed is firm within my hand.
Is not subtle dandilion better than inconstancy?

Come back to me, the wind soughs,
Rustling the edges of my white-winged sleeves.
I open up my hand, loose free the dandilion
That seems to shrink into a brown putresence,
Indistinguishable from the hard and winter dirt.

I lift my head and feel the first few drops of rain
Upon my weary, wrinkled brow.
They feel like tears.
My bones protest the spring,
Protest another year spent readying the soul for sorrow.

But I return and place my parchment hand
Upon the green-leafing bark.
The skin is warm to touch and the boughs dip down to kiss me.
I am old, yet not so old
To tend once more the changing cherry tree.

Rain down, rain down,
I whisper to the Heavens.
Give us life once more.

Mood: Sad, confused, befuddled, and something more than orange M&M's. These are dew-dropped cherries.
Music: "The Stolen Child," music by Loreena McKennit a la the Merry CD.
What (nearly) ruined my day: Child Molestation Prevention Training in-school program. Ugh.
What made my day: Long, long rambling talks about everything with Ch.
What I desire: A lack of e-mails; more hours for philosophy