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Poem

Quiet it stands, the cherry tree, 
lushed in dreams so tenderly. 
Each branch whispers a breath of spring, 
As though it hides a song to sing. 

Petals drift like fragrant snow, 
Softly where the breezes go. 
For a moment, the season stays, 
Then gently slips into the haze. 

Beneath its shade, time rests awhile, 
Carving memories in fragile style. 
It feels like childhood's laughter sweet, 
Or parting sighs we’d rather cheat. 

The blossoms fall, so pale, so light, 
They murmur: "All will pass from sight." 
Yet every year, it blooms once more, 
 The cherry tree, at season’s door. 

To teach us beauty does not last— 
But lives entire within the past. 
What once was lost becomes a song, 
What lies ahead, where hopes belong. 

Now comes the time — the ripened red, 
Where once pink blossoms gently fled. 
The cherry tree in summer's grace 
Wears rubies in its leafy lace. 

Small birds flutter through green shade, 
Hiding where the branches braid. 
They peck and sing, in playful cheer, 
As if the orchard holds them near. 

Children run with gleeful cries, 
Bright wonder dancing in their eyes. 
Little hands reach up and climb, 
To taste the sweet of sun and time. 

They fill their baskets, fill their smiles, 
Then wander home across the miles. 
Some cherries dropped, some left behind, 
Too soft for mouths, too late for rind. 

This season, brief as lovers’ touch, 
Gives all it has, then asks not much. 
Just memories—both ripe and raw— 
Of red delight, and nature’s law.

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