Upon those boughs which shake against the cold;
Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
You missed a beautiful morning.
The cherry boughs, where the birds broke the day,
are full and heavy as cathedral bells
waiting to peal.
I'm stuck with the truth,
an awkward box left on my doorstep
that I cannot square with my shelves.
So I took a walk, sure that someone sly as you
could never be trapped by such a box.
More likely you've gone wandering,
and left it as a riddle
or a reference to the fragments
of a Latin poet's manuscript.
Suppressing a laugh, you'll light a cigarette
and explain it to me.
In your class you taught the limits of truth but not of beauty,
something I'm coming to appreciate,
and why I think you'd like today;
this cherry is jagged with beauty, impossibly heavy,
refusing to give up it's bloom, it is frozen.
It will take only a breeze for it to break
and scatter the sidewalk with tiny pieces,
as stained and sharp as the glass from a Catherine Window.