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The breeze ruffles my hair
like an older sibling,
trying to tease.
The trees dance with leaves,
flitting around on their stems.

Petals from the Sakuras
land at my feet. They
are the rain. I see
why they are honored
every year in Japan.

The snows have passed
away from bright,
yellow light that burns
my eyeballs. I can’t see
the pink downpour.

The Cherry blossom trees’
flowers are gone,
proof that Spring
has come to Roanoke.
Weather be damned.