The Grass in the Cemetery is the Same Green as the Grass Beneath the Cherry Blossoms

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

When cherry blossoms scatter and are dead

Upon the ground, will they consider me?

Just as they die, some settle on my head.

Bewildered little things, their artless filigree

First decorates my sunshine hair.  They cling

There in a moment of the April air

And then take flight upon a see-through wing.

They do not whisper of a blocked despair.

They say instead, “Man, we are cousins, you

And us—and where we go there you will go.

The meaning of our flight beneath the blue

Of springtime sky is what each heart must know.

  “Pastel our message is and it is sure.

      Be certain in this fact.  There is no cure.”