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A carpet of cherry blossoms—
windblown pink fallen fragility.
It knows of loneliness.
I pick myself up
ridding my highs
and lowliest lulls
spring squeezing
and crushing of petaled souls.
Miles and years away in Volunteer Park
before we were blown
to unknown boundaries
in the skin of things opposite,
we carved our initials into the trunk
of an evergreen. Existential
examination—our etched existence.
I’ve written this poem one hundred times.
Sad, wounded adjectives sutured together
a lifelong refrain—things go by faint, forgotten.
Still, today in this saddened living
room where love and vows happen,
she whispers in my ear,
Come on baby, we can do this.