As prickly as sometimes you claim you are,
My sweetmeat pear,
I know now we were wrong –
You are no cactus, thorned and difficult.

You are a cherry blossom.
Feminine, tinged pale and pink,
Lovely as a spring day
With wind shaking silken petals like snow.

Transient too, blooming and then disappearing,
Clouds of delicacy and exquisite affection,
Seen only for a moment, a day; a perfect hope,
Never quite enduring, precious and fleeting as life.

In Vancouver, BC and Washington DC,
Kyoto and Palawan, open mouthed tourists gape
Like I do, each ephemeral season of you:

Such beauty, such light.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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