Where are the cherry blossoms?

One of the things I’ve realized here is talking about the weather all the time. Weather governs our lives, our behavior and our language. For the most part, March has been too long, cold and unpleasant. It’s supposed to be Spring but in actuality we are having an extension of winter. I’ve moved from shock, to amazement, to amusement and now to patience. It will all change as part of the season’s cycle in its due course.

I wouldn’t mind much if we were talking about the weather but not writing about it. I’ve checked my blog and a couple of poems and shock, shock, they’re full of the weather. I have to revise them. Let’s see what April brings and the news will be better. So many drafts to work on and a semester that demands priority. When blossoms and the Sun shall appear in their glory, we will be ready. For now, prompting the cherry blossom.

Poem by C Richard Miles

The Cherry Blossom’s Out

The cherry blossom’s out to brighten city streets

And daffodils all shout that spring is here to greet

The trees, about to burst in bud and leaf and bloom,

That bring us all relief from winter’s hateful gloom.

The cherry blossom’s out and scattered in a drift

All down the busy road, a welcome petalled gift

Resembling winter snow, all soft and white and light

But not so cruel and cold, this cheerful, happy sight.

The cherry blossom’s out, so simple clean and pure

Before it starts to fall upon the road’s rough floor,

But, even in the crush of traffic’s trundling wheels,

Its bloom brings us a blush of beauty, which appeals.

The cherry blossom’s out and floats upon the breeze

Which toys with every branch upon the cherry trees

In cheerful playfulness on this soft, spring-like day,

An early splash of white before the buds of May.

II. “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now…”

By A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

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