Japanese Peach Blossom Festival by Bob Bradshaw

Japanese Peach Blossom Festival

We wait for your friend
from a small footbridge–
the pond’s koi gazing up
with brightly painted faces.

A 93 year old woman
in a kimono laughs
as I greet her, a kokyu
in her arms.

She wanders with us
past flying windsocks
and pink clouds
of flowering peach and plum,

to a small auditorium
where you lean into a mic
and play a song about winter,
your flute sounds pure
and free in the rich,
fruit scented air,

I stand as the song ends
applauding wildly.
You are the first girl I kissed,
my heart leaping like waves
over a sea wall.
Who knew that fifty years
would pass by like
an overnight
storm?

by Bob Bradshaw

 

Editor’s Note: The beauty of the imagery in this poem seems almost too simple, but sometimes the best verse is quiet and beautiful.

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