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by R. Welch

At a certain point each Spring,
after the confidence of crocuses has been confirmed,
and the daffodils have come and gone,
the cherry trees turn the streets where I live into
ribbed, pink throats,
and to drive them is to be swallowed,
like a lozenge on a tongue.

In a week, maybe less,
Atlantic breezes will raise swirling pink clouds.
Or, if the winds should fail,
blanket cars and sidewalks with a blushing snow.

Death should come like that.
I’d like to be lifted through pink veils, into light.
Or, lacking light,
lie down beneath a gentle rain of petals
and quietly disappear.

R. Welch is a widowed father of two girls.  He lives in Marblehead, Mass. in an old barn of a house built in 1773.  He collects native american art.  He has recently started writing “verse” (or whatever these are) for some  reason.  He has apparently decided he wants to be a poet when he grows up.

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