Spring plunged her fingers into
the hair of the Earth.
1947.
Spring scrolled through
the hearts of the people,
Throwing seeds of kindness and grace
as sakura did when she lost her pink tender petals.
Spring of 1947,
I met you with the bowed heart and genuflected dreams.
Sakura bloomed so vigorously, whispering
the spells of life into my ears.
I did not listen to them.
If sakura could explain to me how one with a deaf heart could hear
Sakura bewitched me with a charming
kimono of spring kisses, inviting me to fondle
innocent florets of resurrection.
I would always remember sakura,
the cherished friend of my youth.
She was only one, a sakura in my yard.
I tried to go to her, kiss her with my fingers,
Devote my cheeks to her flowers. I could not.
One time I stood up and fell.
I stood up and fell.
Fell.
Failed.
I
could
not
make
a step
toward
my
dream.
A strange power parted me from my sakura.
The day became so light and blazing
as thousands of suns targeted the Earth with their arms.
I could not remember how the suns anguished,
but I would never forget the anguish of my sakura.
She stood with playful green leaves,
and then disappeared.
No, she did not disappear. I saw her,
I tried to save my sakura.
My sakura is still there.
Don't you see?
It stands in my yard,
And greets me in the morning when I go
in wheelchair to my beautiful
garden of ash and glory.
I have had rolling legs
since I was 10. And my sakura was
a little girl in a pink dress, smiling to me in the spring,
dancing with me in the summer
And my sakura stands right there.
I run to her every day to meet
my only family,
my hope,
my life.
I fail.
I stand up.
I fall.
But hope cannot fall,
hope cannot fail to live.
