Cherry Trees

I do not know what grieves me more, the slant
Of light that veils the face of April snow
As Cherry trees begin to shed and know
Their time has passed them by, or the slow chant
Among the boughs, a keening of despair
For what was beautiful, so short a stay
Of fragile company that shift and sway,
Wait on the wind to float them to the air.
How many times the staggering stem divines
Its future memories in retrospect
And props the treasure that will be stole,
Know only that the cost is great yet finds
Some comfort in its mind to recollect
It’s labours in the making of a soul.

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