the maples are on blossom, and the sun seems too young to be ignored

i’ll buy two twenty-four-hour tickets,
switch on the springtime,
take food and a spare pair of socks,
and invite you to go through this city
of endless shades of sunshine, look up trees,
ask strange questions of dandelions and
catalogue all that is green, crazy, and budding.

we will jump transport criss-cross,
from a line end to another, in all colours
and sizes of adverts; fitting in
with the starlings and blackbirds,
feral cats intent on begetting, and
loose lovers too kissing in streets.

it will be a journey of lawns
and shrubbery, sprouting catkins, tender leaves,
the taste of fresh dust in the eyes,
and garlands of bird-cherries, barely
showing the bitter-sweet white through their covers.

we will breathe the fresh pink and flutter
of sakura, and the scintillant gold the
laburnum bring forth; inhale the the aroma
of cherries and wild plums, carried by
alternative winds over traffic,
and see strangers like lizards all over in parks.

all these hours we’ll walk, jump,
stand still in wonder and laugh,
and take pictures, share the breeze and a pie,
and make friends with this city
and light, and moss and what grows
and has joy, so that we live and we play
under this sun that blindly
watches us young all over again.

 

 

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