Cherry Blossom Festival

I came because the wood thrush called me: They were out in mass and perhaps for another day or two.  The bloom that blushes every spring and rings the Tidal Basin pink. Blindingly beautiful and then before you know, are blown away, like everything we own, not meant to last forever, not even for a lifetime or a season of change. Like the most pure virgin smile will certainly wrinkle or the undying lovethat may one day fade away, the majestic sakura as the baby blossoms fall.

So I hit the road with weary feet, still trembling from last week's 26-miler, the one that wasn't meant to be, and now I tried to wipe away.  But my mind was fresh and my heart anew,  hungry to steal a glimpse of those pastel petals floating loftily with every puff or sprinkle. The ground, my Nikes covered in white like the foot of snow from the errant blizzard flight, imposed on us like a long-forgotten great uncle that blanketed this city just last month, if I remember right.  Other than that night, DC no longer knew pure white from the haze of snow except this fortnight, the cloud of bloom rising high and purple sepals raining nigh on the grass and foot paths something magical, idolic and ripe.

I ran with all the might I could muster but soon found myself frozen still in the light of the Pearly luster searching for the inner meaning and peace that had escaped me and hoping that this model of love and transience of life will stay indelibly etched in my enigma even if I have to chase them down before they all floated away.