Cherry Blossoms

On a bright Sunday morning, your smile forms the horizon and your teeth become the bright sun. you stretch your arms out allowing the songbirds to make love on your finger tips, the bosoms of your cherry blossoms aren’t what they use to be. The shade of pink that showed your blushing cheeks are no longer there; your blossoms are more like sadden roses, a deep red of embarrassment. Embarrassed of how your children treat you, how they beat you; Bombs and missiles are pressed deeper into you, Cigarette smoke crushing your lungs, Your pores clogged by alcohol & the blood from those who thought wrist were strings from kites that they could just cut free. Your dress is a dingy shade of purple made from blue skies and red blood. I want to remember what I use to see. Instead of this cancer known as civilization I want to see you hair like trees, Cheek like plains, I want to learn the structure of your bones; How they curve and twist to make your Grand Canyon, how your passion spreads like wild fires, how your skirt twist into tornadoes, how you 2 steps into earthquakes, how you blew the coldest winters, and no matter how lost I am you always keep me on the ground never leaving my side, your gravity keeps me comfort because I know your thinking about a child who is worried for his mother worried that the branches you grew into the heavens have been cut down for profit and no profit is more important than profit for you because without you we have no land, with no land we have no home, and with no home we are lost. Lost in your mysteries, your echoing valleys, and I am sorry that you have to discipline us with hurricanes and tsunamis but we children are experimenting. Learning how to make our lives better when you’re the one that gave us life to begin with, I am sorry. But know there are still a few us who like to come at night and listen to your stories. Hear your thunder clapping, your waves crashing, cuddling with your vines with the knowing fact that you’re still beautiful. Knowing that you haven’t changed & that you are still the Mother Earth we fell in love with. You are still beautiful, through the trenches of warfare and dirtiest of slums, you are still beautiful, you are still beautiful, you are still beautiful to me.



I wrote this poem my 11th grade year. I go to an environmentally friendly school so I've always been surrounded by topics about the Environment and what we can do to make it better and understand it. This was my contribution to the topic.

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