Wednesday, March 1, 2017


The cherry blossom is aloof and impersonal. It grows among many and does not care if one or a thousand bees settle upon it.

When spring dissolved into drops of white memories, for a moment, I saw no blind and unrelenting Will. There was only beauty: a contract between myself, a cherry tree, and time.

Behind us, steel tore apart a home, those homes: where people lived, had sex, died, were born perhaps. They were told that because they were not rich, in spite of having lived here all their lives, they did not deserve to have a view. Someone else should. And pay someone even richer for that privilege.

The tree and house are gone.

The speakers and proponents call this "change" in the forum of the shallow, the heartless and the greedy. It is described like a flood or wildfire. Natural. Meant to be. How dare they usurp the dignity of natural mutability for a few years of worrying about the money they do not need.

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