I can still smell grass, and the balmy breeze
of blossoms tumbling from the cherry tree,
under which, my first love - came to Be.
A naive, delicate, kind of connection.
Milk and honey; tender affection
in purest, fondest memory, resting under the cherry tree
warmth on my cheeks.
Sweet shaded earth under my toes, watching blossoms float. Where the wind blows
Stomach's or stems all in a knot
wide eyed, grinning and bashful;
as well as tongue tied
a half smiled "hello" with conversational lack
but once and again, we kept coming back
engraved our initials so others could see
As a mark, as a proof still planted were we
Under; and with, the cherry tree
And how blossoms become cherries, we matured,
overtime, slowly, with no warning or word
and perhaps that cherry tree laced love in its branches
and innocence - its roots
and bittersweet stories into- it's red fruits
under the same tree we played "duck, duck, goose"
First love, cherries, and lessons- were all produced.
in rightfully concluding memory
a tale of you and I, and the cherry tree
that spring, we gained wisdom and reason
and blossoms may fall on the next season,
And blossoms may fall on the next season.
:
:
A.W.
"it wasn't the atmospheric aroma
stuck in my lungs, but it was you, stuck on my mind."
aw
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Moonlight
Puisi"I took a swig of moonlight and swayed with the stars" A collection of poems, short letters, and quotes. Delicately laced with stardust and woven together in the hours of the moon. Each differently sculpted, for the moon's silver drops had someth...
