by James Owens

death walked the road inside her
cherry petals fluttering all about
on the shadow in his breath
on the shadow under his pilgrim's cloak

she kept asking him
what does it mean
this world where cherry petals
fly like snow into black hair

what is it
to have a shape
when these petals
trace my pulse on the wind

but death had strayed too deep
to remember this world
or the teahouse
of their last words together

an empty bowl
filled slowly
with drifting
snowy petals

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