Marsha Hollingsworth 

Blossoms

Forty-eight floors, a god’s-eye view

A man practices tai-chi on a tired patch of grass;
he is measured, beautiful.

Families rest under new-green trees
in Yoyogi Park this early spring Sunday.

Mt. Fuji rises like a myth, fading
to illusion in the gathering smog.



A few inches can be an uncrossable sea

we sit, silently contemplating discord
and the meaningless reasons for it.

Last week, freshly opened
cherry blossoms painted the city pink,
now, faded petals cyclone at our feet.

Tears, fleeting as sakura,
bloom and fall.