In mourning morning fog
when even birds are down below
the cherry trees that flower in the graveyard
call us to salute them
as if they'd die
without our response
not just their beauty.
We do not know, somehow,
this magic show of green
is how it is supposed to be,
there is no time
to end in
as there's no time
when sleeping.
And growing never ends,
the reaching for the one within all life.
At some point we must go there alone.