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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3746 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention When Cherry Blossoms Paint the Street Gary Blankenship How can we, when we hear the ringneck call it's mate, the thrush carry bright yarn to finish a nest in some far cedar, the mother rabbit cover her young as owls search the ground for prey and an old fox roams along the creek bed, complain that cherry blossoms paint the curb, pollen streaks the glass on our sedan, dandelions gather in the yard in preparation to send their snow into the breeze? We can worry for the old woman who lives down the street, whether she will be able to breath when the earth spreads its dust across warm spring skies and her wash will be tarnished green. We can tremble with the mouse, shudder in anticipation wasps still make their home under the deck, and swipe our hair and coat at spider webs which seem to arrive in the wrong season. We can mourn the young man who will not return to see pink and white blooms turn to fruit, hear the wind and rain, eat strawberries from the vine or kiss a girl beyond the barn. But who can grumble when cherry blossoms paint the grass and tulips nod in evening's wind, except old men who are never quite warm enough, whose bones never seem to quit aching as they remember wild berry kisses after the last dance? |
