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Her First Cherry Blossoms
In a world a-flutter, a-clutter with cherry blossoms,
on a path strewn with cherry blossoms,
she clutches close her own few petals, as if
bearing a treasure beyond price, as if oblivious
of the profusion, as if saying, "You're
my cherry blossoms!" She is making them
special--if possible, as special as she
must be to have such special cherry blossoms.
And she is very special: Bright red shorts,
rosy cheeks, blonde pony-tail, all sorts
of cute, including acute confusion
about who makes what special.
The painter has not done much with the blossoms.
That gold streak of hair over the ear,
the red shadow where arm leaves sleeve
(see how it leaks out onto the white shirt?),
shadowed instep of white tennies, loopy
light and dark ovals on the lawn where sun
filters through and around translucent blossoms,
opalescent scribble of pathway,
the girl's intent, inward-tensing posture
as she steps carefully though careless
abundance: These things the artist
makes special, these and light and
depth (where "special" is spacial,
a matter of perspective) and the intense
act of making special and the importance
of knowing who makes special.
October 6, 2002