Like an unwelcome birthday, twilight breaths
down our necks.  At Ashikaga we float, two
hopeful buds amongst hundreds, flowers of
a different kind.

Purple, mauve, lilac, pink, blinding white.
Colors of our daydreams projected into the
universe that lies outside of us.

Threads of yesterday, perfectly preserved in
pictures, pave the way for tomorrow’s
celebrations. 

Do you remember Summer 2020?   Do you
remember how we screamed and cheered,
with our babies on our laps, for Kaya Kazuma
when he won bronze at the Tokyo Games?

You don’t?  Well, I do.

Wisterian hues fold and unfold us, make and
remake us, keeping us honest, keeping us
focused and true to ourselves. 

And yet, I remember much that never was.

The manacles of this virus, long have they reigned,
gradually rust and come undone, falling away
to reveal restless and ready hands.

I remember for both of us.

Daring to be brilliant, regal even, though it
is known that our blooms burst for but a
brief time.