Sakura Park

　　by Rachel Wetzsteon

　　 The park admits the wind，

　　 the petals lift and scatter

　　 like versions of myself I was on the verge

　　 of becoming； and ten years on

　　 and ten blocks down I still can't tell

　　 whether this dispersal resembles

　　 a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

　　 But the petals scatter faster，

　　 seeking the rose， the cigarette vendor，

　　 and at least I've got by pumping heart

　　 some rules of conduct： refuse to choose

　　 between turning pages and turning heads

　　 though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

　　 "getting over"： dark clouds don't fade

　　 but drift with ever deeper colors.

　　 Give up on rooted happiness

　　 （the stolid trees on fire！） and sweet reprieve

　　 （a poor park but my own） will follow.

　　 There is still a chance the empty gazebo

　　 will draw crowds from the greater world.

　　 And meanwhile， meanwhile's far from nothing：

　　 the humming moment， the rustle of cherry trees

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