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My Brother’s Photographs Of Cherry Blossoms In Japan
by Gladys Henderson
It is snowing, the pagodas of Tokyo
are rimmed with lips of red.
In their shadows
they gather snow lace
and drip chimes on flat stones.
A woman walks in blue kimono
and mahogany shoes.
She carries a glass of wine in
an outstretched hand.
Light moves across her face
like a river.
She measures her steps
carefully, watching her hand
and the sway of precious liquid.
The path from the familiar
is covered quickly.
Outside my bedroom window,
snow clings to the tops of evergreens.
Winter recedes, snow rolls off the roof.
I am in my bed with a shoebox
of your photos and this one on top.
Your thumb print in the corner
changing colors.
I remember your hands shaking
when you held it towards the light,
as though you might find what was lost.
Your eyes like an eight-year-old looking
through a forbidden window.
Slowly steps end without imprint,
only the blossom flower each spring after.
When the wind blows,
pollen and flower fall to the ground
as one voice.