To take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it.
Just when I was beginning to have my doubts, they came back. The cherry blossoms, I mean. The sky was sodden and grey, and then, suddenly, all aching blue. All trembling limbs etched into bare skies. I stood on the roadside, collecting them by the armful, and, for a moment, I saw myself. I saw myself, standing under the branches, all swelling with fruit. So much of it fallen, bruised and black and blue, but so much of it sweet. And it was sweet; the having of it, the holding it in my hands. The peeling away of layers. The pit, the heart. The baring of teeth.
And, all the flowers, they're gone now. The streets were covered for days, before the rain came and restored in me a truth that I had forgotten; beauty and sorrow, they are one in the same. Beauty and sorrow and sorrow and beauty and the forever becoming of the other. The embracing of both, not as separate states of being, but as one.
And during spring, it's not hard to beauty. It's not hard to fall in love every time you turn the corner, at the sight of every bud, every blossom. What's hard is finding beauty in all the times in between, all those times when beauty can't be collected by the literal armful. When the world isn't peeling itself open, and you, in turn, have to open yourself. That's when you really need the poetry that is the cherry tree shaking its' fists, that is the unceremonious rain.