A Blossom on the Shores of River Styx

Felix Fuchs/The Eagle

.

Just like the far off clouds above

Pursue horizon, heaven’s beach,

I tried to-day to reach

Seclusion, that illusive dove;

For there is no better, bitter

Loneliness

Than the solitary quest

To find a space

No man can ever set his foot upon

To merely spoil another

Garden Eden,

Another Paradise:

.

Seeing the masses of people

Moving on the Basin’s shore

I turn the other way:

Twixt blooming cherry trees and passing cars

.

I stumble upon

A sleepy pond:

Perfect – almost – in terms of solitude;

Under one of the gently moving trees,

.

I sit,

.

Savoring the sweet scent

And the clear voices of distant

Flirting robins,

.

Until I feel the moment

Slowly withering,

Passing…

.

Watching wobbling waves

Wiggling under the serene stare of the

Washington Monument:

.

That unworldly, timeless rock,

That memorial to history itself.

.

Today, for this occasion,

Its sports a weird

And twisted tail

That some unknown artist

.

Painted at its base

On the bright blue canvas

Of the Tidal Basin’s

Soft reflection.

.

The wind whispers wistfully of wishful thinking,

Of waste and wonder, pondering the yonder.

.

Anon, I become aware of my surroundings

And realize that I have set foot on a graveyard:

Dismembered blossoms,

Petal next to petal;

.

Cut from the bough they were hanged on,

They rest on the grass, nature’s softest deathbed.

.

Some even drowned

In the pool.

White and pink

They sink.

.

I feel like sitting amidst a funeral procession

And get up, looking all about:

.

A crumpled net of wrinkled waves,

The water does resemble now the grey hide

Of an old elephant –

.

Shivering,

Tired of life,

Irrelevant –

.

Until it softens

And hits the gloomy stones

Of its confinement

With defiance.

.

Around the trees and me

I see countless cars

Passing, yet,

Somehow do not feel disturbed.

.

The trees, despite the loss

Of so many friendly leaves,

Remain silent.

.

If the trees don’t mind,

Why would I?

.

I take a deep breath

Of cool air.

.

The constant vibration

Of the cars on the road

Blends in with the interference

Among the tiny radiating waves.

.

Not feeling their ripples,

I stand aloof

On top of the wall

And still feel somewhat shaken;

.

Rocked.

.

The sunbeams smell like flowers

And their warmth comforts me,

While painting my surroundings

In somewhat kinder colors.

.

The sun seems to pat me on the back

As if to invite me to lay down

Beneath the bending branches

On the leaves of grass.

.

Instead I turn and touch

The bloomy branches,

As if to comfort them

That time is fleeting.

.

I whispered a haiku into their purple

Calyxes, into their hearts:

.

Delicate blossoms:

Softer than any woman

Man will ever kiss.

.

They do not seem to hear,

But shiver in remembrance of

Their ancestral home on distant shores;

The shores of the Land of the Rising Sun.

.

The dark branches –

Quite like fingers with which

The trees try to feel for

The elusive high water mark;

.

Their own horizon –

.

A ray of golden gleaming sunlight breaks

Through the curtain of candid clusters,

Reaching for the water,

The steadily changing surface

.

And its hidden depths.

.

Parting the celebrated cherry blossoms, smiling,

It hits the surface and vanishes out of sight,

.

The Sunbeam –

Drenched in gold and amber –

Slowly sinks, drifting downwards

Into the Dark,

Where no blossom ever ventures

And returns;

.

Like a lazy thought,

Conceived on a sleepy Sunday afternoon:

One of those that soon

You will never quite remember.