Forty-eight floors up, 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 impossible sea
we sit, silently contemplating discord
and the meaningless reasons for it
cherry trees paint the city pink
while faded petals cyclone at our feet
tears, fleeting as sakura
bloom and fall.
— The End —