The ground is green, shattered by pink blotches.
Pink blotches which fill the air above me.
With red baubles that hang tensely.
Watching as the wind blows these blotches across the ground, like paper caught in a fan.
I don’t miss it, though.
Because what is lost is found again, as the same gust brings down more blotches.
Frankly, it would be easy for anyone to sit here a while and just watch the cycle.
The cycle of falling from the tree, being scattered on the ground, then being blown off to god’s knows where.
Strangely analogous in a way, about life in a way.
Born from the tree, then we get blown along life to wherever the wind takes us, before ending up somewhere.
I’m sure wherever that is, it’s better than most other places.
Speaking of which, actually.
What’s a cherry-tree without its bomb-shaped fruits though?
The only two explosive things about them are their crimson-red skin and their volatile flavour.
Quite literally the fruits of their labour, these trees, that is.
labour most people take for granted. I don’t though.
Cherries are perhaps a personal favourite of mine.
They’re rich, taste great and are genuinely satisfying to look at.
The only thing I’d change though? That damn pip in the middle.
I know exactly why it’s there, to continue the cycle and all.
I know the Japanese enjoy their springs a lot, people even go to temples which are lined with the trees.
Trees that unfortunately, in june, don’t blossom anymore,
Ah woe is me, ah oh well.
Maybe I should take a pip from the next cherry tree I see.
And maybe see how it does if I grow it.
ah, Oh well, until next time.
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