I was born beneath the cherry blossom tree.
Each spring it dressed itself in light, each fall it undressed without shame. 
Under its branches, I learned the language of first greetings and goodbyes.
It never warned me that beauty would hurt.

When I first fell in love, we sat beneath the cherry blossom tree.
In the night sky, we traced constellations
and made promises that the petals could never keep.
Thinking permanence was the reward for sincerity,
I mistook the blossom for forever.

Then autumn came.
One by one, the leaves fell, drifting gently to the ground,
teaching me the art of surrender.
Defying their wisdom, I grasped at every falling petal,
but our love was gone.

When winter arrived, the cold found its way inside of me. 
The tree stood bare, and so did I.

I promised the tree I had finally understood.
I’d learned the rhythm of loss,
the inevitable death and rebirth of all things.
I swore I’d never cling to the blossoms again.

The tree said nothing,
only stood in its stillness as snow gathered at its roots.
So I kept my word.
I let my heart freeze beside it,
mistaking numbness for wisdom.

Seasons turned without me.
Springs came and went, soft and indifferent.
And then, when I had stopped expecting warmth,
she appeared — my second blossom.

The girl who smelled of peaches
and had summer in her eyes
slowly thawed my winter.
I took her to the cherry blossom tree
that stood with the same quiet grace.
The branches were heavier now,
the roots older, and so was I.

Petals drifted around us beneath its shade
as I spoke of the seasons —
how everything blooms only to fall.

I warned her that nothing would last, not even us.
She only smiled, brushing a petal from my shoulder,
and said some things are worth loving.

Her warmth was patient, steady, undeserved.
She didn’t try to melt me;
she simply stayed close, until I could feel again.
Her vines were a forever hug.

And though I told myself I was immune to attachment,
I found myself needing her vines.
But as the season turned,
I began to hate how her vines
were both my anchor and my cage.

I had seen the pattern, lived the cycles —
cherishing spring, dreading fall,
still hoping this time winter would forget me.
It didn’t.

So I ended the bloom before winter could claim
it. Now, leaning on the bare cherry blossom tree,
I realized I had spent all my strength
running from the ending,
only to return where I began.

Water moved. Trains passed. Shadows shifted. The world
exhaled its frost, and silence became gentler. The tree and
I didn’t change so much as we were changed.

Ten springs later, I sit beneath the same cherry blossom tree,
wiser to the hum of the universe.
Sunlight filters through its branches, warm against my face.
The grass steadies me in its quiet embrace,
and the wind brushes back my hair,
revealing the face I no longer hide.
The petals shiver, and in their movement, the tree whispers:
“You were always the bloom you sought,
chasing echoes of your own roots.
Now you see it: you and I are not separate.
You are the branch, the wind, the bloom, the fall.”