They’d been running o’er the bridges
made of slender branching arcs,
lanceolate winding limbs,
and a wish to reach the skies.

As they rushed towards the ends,
each was stricken by sunlight.
Ah, the sundry snowy buttons
had now blossomed in bright whites!

And the stars began to court
these lights on the cherry tree.
They were certainly so coy
that with red they blushed their cheeks.

After two months, I could finally see the cherries at my father’s--I had to dust my bike, because we finally ran out of gas (forever?)--. I didn’t know how much I longed to see them. I guess it’s some sort of metonymy: the contiguity of longings. We can’t visit him; we can’t spend an afternoon over there and share a cup of coffee by the cherry tree.

I came home and sat down to write these verses, and as I managed to find the adequate correlatives, I remembered there was a cherry tree too at my granny’s. I hold sweet memories of that little yard with exuberant cherries. Sweet unrepeatable childhood.

In some way our affections are tied to things, too, like providing our materialism with some spirituality. We can’t be blamed.