As If She Was a Cherry Tree

She wakens with the rising sun, emerging from night's sable net, her body--cold and naked from the silence of its silhouette. Though barren from a wintry sleep, the dawn recruits her once again, restoring her cherubic bark to sate the restless hearts of men. Her garden keepers, like a breeze, deluge throughout her limber being, embellishing her slender trunk with trimmings suited for a queen. They dress her down in garnished silk, for men desiderate appeal and flock behind beginning buds in hopes their blossoms will reveal. They veil her countenance with snow to imitate the charming moon, so that her lustful audience will drift away in carnal swoon. She exits from her private grove to radiate her temporal cure; her lips are laced with cherry and possess a saccharine allure. She lilts about on lifted roots, exuding floral elegance, and every room she slips into is subjugated by her scents. Her older sister starts to pluck a melody on flavored strings. Away--the rosy sapling flies, performing as the trio sings! Her limbs display like graceful wind; her petals sweep the lustrous floor; her gaze, like vernal fire, burns into the eyes she dances for! The night returns to claim her bloom; so quickly does she flee from me, to leave but soil in her stead-- as if she was a cherry tree.