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The Plaza's Cherry Blossoms 

That they return to us each year

from the interior, from the

mute, iced-over selves of winter trees.


That they return to us:

deep feelings infusing

the avenue. Women, men


walking beneath boughs,

inadvertently inhale,

look up


at their perfection which is a kind

of meditation, each blossom

an atom of softest cloud.


A mass, a profusion, blooms

overwhelm the vision, saturate

the eyes until lids close, let the nostrils


make sense of the spectacle, grasp

the perfume, powdery and porous,

an intense, forgotten pleasure.


That this phenomenon called

spring could summon the honey

of the human heart to flow


upward, a golden wave

clouding the calculating brain,

overriding, that instant,


all pain, guilt, sorrow,

that is the power we call


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Celia Homesley

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