White oblong flower petals
land with the soft silence
one expects of the moon
sneaking across the day sky.
Stolen by the wind on its morning rounds
from the spire cherry tree
the flowered snow speckles my wooden deck
a ticker tape parade covering.
They will melt in time
as all things do,
bending to that tired but relentless god,
turning brown to match the planks
upon which their death slowly unwinds.
Still, this death has fleeting beauty
and the last remaining scent
draws a curious bumble bee,
a witness to its last act.