She enters the orange bricked building with an uneasy step.
Wispy white clouds drift in the wind’s incessant slap,
four pink cherry trees, their popcorn blossoms fluttering,
are bent double like old people in a gale.
While flowers shudder and smoky cumulus marches
the stuttering sun spreads over the sky,
lights up everything under its arc.
When she emerges, the lines on her face,
puffy sallowness around eyes and lips,
will have vanished, in the lightest of breezes,
thinned matted hair will have bloomed.
Like a fingertip caress, I will look at a youthful image
where all cares and illness have evaporated
in the smack of the sun’s promised kiss.