The young cherry’s leaves are blown back like a bush
by the day’s end breeze
that drags up fallen blossom from the grass.
The Braille ridges of the central-leader trunk narrate
an undercooked story, of how it’s hard
to draw up from the taproots a month’s worth of rain.
How fine it must be, though, to know precisely
what’s needed to prosper;
not to have to cogitate till the cows come home;
till the sky caves in.