A monk sits alone one evening in Tokyo

He's waiting patiently for the blossom front to update

He has followed the flowering forecast every year

As it moves northward since he was a small boy

As he sits, he contemplates how all the trees flower at different times

Depending on the sun's path around the buildings and the myriad of temples

And shrines located across the city

The Kanhizakura and its bell-shaped flowers of pink-flushed tones

The Yamazakura, one of the oldest species of blossom tree

The Fuganzo and how, in late bloomers, the leaves emerge before their flowers

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

Throughout this time, the trees seem to carry him

It is a kind of floating practice

He imagines the great plants and the forest trees unwind

The trees' distinct patterns and shape and form

Their subtle shades and hues

And even a number of petals within each blossom

Stacked on top of each other so delicately

As if they were placed

Just as quickly as the flowers bloom, they disappear

Snow petals drift, forming clusters of held lightness around the green earth and concrete floors

And as the seasons change

He knows this may be his last

Every spring, he returns