Today, Love: An Anthology of Self

So We Bloom

My mother was born in Japan,
Honshu in the springtime
maybe that's why she still dons a fine mist of cherry blossoms
and plants Bradford pears in our soil,
their bubble gum blossoms an imitation
of ones she wants knew,
soft as Silk,
an incarnate carnival of smooth carnation.
Her father once sang to her
songs of such flowers
and she recalls the tune as I peck it out
the words coming back to her
like leaves in the spring,
notes like petals scattering to the ground,
faded memories,
whispers.
Japanese characters are nailed to the wall above our piano
of music and hope and faith
it's the piano she learned to play on
the same piano that taught me to love music, the same piano I fiddled with now as my mother trails in from the kitchen,
"Sakura,
sakura."