A cherry blossom falls.
It’s soft pink petals open to meet its maker,
Welcoming intrusion so that a seed may grow.
For now it knows that no seed will flourish,
The act is not futile
But exquisite in the making.
So soft to touch,
Just a petal carried by the winds strong arms.
Engulfed in rapture all is sacred,
Tenuous unfolding tongues of foreplay.
One without the other does not exist in this realm.
A puzzle fitting in syncopated rhythms.
A leaf turns over,
A new position of authority.
Reaching new depths,
Surpassing the petal into the velvet underground.
This is where souls are born,
Both in body and ecstasy.
The wind then picks up the petal and carries her away.