I'll come back.

Icy Japan, Brisk Japan. 
Spindly pricking branches
empty of blushing buds.

Pebbled pathways
whispering mantras,
while the blossom trees
shake their dead fists. 

I recognize the long, thin branches.
There, Shiho, says. Smiling eyes.
She paints pink and white on
the trees across the lake
with her fingers.

Now the trees are full,
hanging plumply over ponds
as cranes stretch out their necks
to kiss the dew off each petal.

The post-winter wind
perfumes the necks of school girls
with a feathered grace
a tsunami could not tremble.

I want to hear the spirit of each flower
on the shores of Matsushima sing.