and now for a bit of poetry

I’m no poet, but it is springtime, so what the hey:

Cherry Blossoms, High Park
 
The dog won’t run faster
Beside my bicycle.
Her halter twists the skin
At her jaw, and she shakes,
Wrenching me off course.
You ride on ahead
Too young for the bike lane, really,
Little white helmet a poor shell
For your greenling ribs,
The budding front teeth
In your still-soft skull.
 
We lie on root-heaved grass
And look up.
“The clouds came right down,”
You say, “and got stuck on the branches.”
Over the din of picnickers,
Japanese shutters, ice-cream truck engine,
I tell you each flower means a cherry.
 
You reach up a downy arm beside mine,
Point a haphazard circle:
“But first all these flowers will fall.”
 
 
 
 
 

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