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.