Weeping Cherry (Poem)

Katherine Ingram’s poem Weeping Cherry. Photo Source: Scroll. In

Katherine Ingram, Contributor.

 

I couldn’t bloom today

but I will tomorrow.

I’ll stretch out as wide as I can go,

and scream at the sky

until the sun falls down on me in rays,

and my branch ends

turn from buds to petals,

and then to blossoms.

 

I’ll bloom tomorrow.

I’ll deprive the atmosphere itself of

oxygen if I have to,

and suck moisture from the soil

until my brittle branches

become firm and stiff,

and my petals flicker like eyelids

– and open, pink,

to glare at the world.

 

I’ll bloom tomorrow.

I can endure anything, everything.

Whatever weight is placed upon me.

Even if I weep.

Even if I cower, and my buds fall with me,

and have to kiss the rough, hard ground

before they taste

the sweetness of the air.

 

Because one day

I’ll draw them out in their thousands,

millions to see me,

but only

when I decide to deign them

with my presence.

Once a year should be enough.

 

One day I’ll have them holding on

to my every blink,

to my every half-hearted flutter.

Even the emperors and officials

will gaze at me expectantly,

while I laugh,

prolonging their agony,

and dance with the breeze

to the beating of butterfly wings.

 

One day

they’ll hold festivals in my honour,

and write poems and songs

about my ethereal beauty.

I’ll be everywhere.

In their perfumes,

their food, their tea.

They won’t be able to get enough of me.

They’ll pass stories about me

from generation to generation

(whispered half in fear

and half in admiration),

and make me into a symbol

so I can live forever.

 

I couldn’t bloom today

but I will tomorrow.