Cherry Tree Kabuki

Dying Higan cherries toppled – cascades
of weeping branches stacked – blossoms’ white, pink
gingham chaos. Gardeners’ electric
saws gnaw rotted trunks, fell our gnarled shade.
The ancient white-faced dog and I escape
our home, pass lawns scattered with ragged sink
hole graves, knotted limbs, bees hunting, frantic
for nectar. We stoop beneath realms terraced
with Akebono cherries, where Kwanzan
groves circle a still pond. The dog drinks, whorls
of pastel petals drift down, their tiny
tsunamis ripple, create water fronds.
In that pool’s mirror, memory unfurls.
The dog and I watch, stricken Kabuki.

© Katherine Gekker 2010 (A slightly different version of this poem appeared on the Chronicle of Higher Education’s blog for their National Poetry Month Contest in April 2010.)

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1 Response to Cherry Tree Kabuki

  1. Sarah Nelson says:

    The metaphors of swirling cherry blossoms and Kabuki dancing theatre makes me want to be in Washington at next years cherry blossom time. You create such a rich and complex picture. I’m sure I don’t get it all yet, but i did read about the long history of the thousands of different kinds of cherry trees sent as gifts to America and the tender care they require.

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