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by R. Welch

At a certain point each Spring,
after the confidence of crocuses has been confirmed
and the daffodils have come, and gone
the Cherry trees turn the streets where I live
into ribbed pink throats
and to drive them is to be swallowed,
like a lozenge on a tongue.

In a week, maybe less,
Atlantic breezes will raise swirling pink clouds,
or, if the winds should fail, leave
cars and sidewalks blanketed by a blushing snow.

Death should come like that.
I'd like to be lifted through pink veils,
into light.
Or, lacking light
lie down beneath a rain of petals
and quietly disappear.