At Last
I have children
waiting in you.
This time, when the cherry blossoms
fall, we meditate like a name
remembering its sound.
We wake up for a day
without a list,
walking the streets for a piece
of our face that can't be
seen in mirrors.
One moment, you are born
with memories
lighter than wind,
and a future
as frail as blossoms.
A spiritual poet in the Seattle area exhibits his poems.
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