One fine poetic afternoon, in the lush green lawns of the Weymouth Center for Arts and Humanities in Pinehurst, North Carolina, I attended a workshop on sestinas. A sestina, a form of formal poetry, was first spoken by traveling troubadours of the 12th century in Pompei. A poem of thirty-nine lines, it is bejeweled by end words repeating themselves in a pattern. I was intrigued by how a simple combination of six end words can make a basketful in the poem.
On my drive back home, I talked myself into writing a book of sestinas by the end of the year. So, I spun stories about love, laughter and cherry blossoms. If you’d like to read that book, you can find it here.
The poem Cherry Blossoms is an account of a young family visiting D.C. to see the blossoming of cherry trees. The child’s innocence, coupled with cherry flowers maneuvering their way into the water, and the unity of the family, for a few moments pauses the tumult in our nation.
Cherry Blossoms
— A Tale Told in 2018
Fountain drops spatter as we walk around D.C.,
wading on a bed of cherry flowers by the Smithsonian station.
Under the sunny glaze and a straw hat,
I am flanked on either side with life, and love.
I smile, I glow within
to the charm in his heart, the spark in her eyes.
Drizzling florets from cherry trees fall on our eyes
as we wander thirteen steps to the nation’s capital, Washington D.C.
Pink and white blossoms surround us, bloom within
our hearts. Awe is in my little girl’s eyes as she sits, stationed
between bark of trees. She flicks her la, la loves,
Mama, here’s one for your hat.
Soft petals bejewel my hat.
Under the wind, over the water, to a castle I eye,
flowers undulate on waves, weave carpets of love
as we face the Jefferson Memorial dome, in the heart of D.C.
Claws of cherries clasp the monument, moving us, while we lie stationary
on the grass. Isn’t it time to capture the moment, the animation within?
She rides piggy-back on her daddy, plucks a flower, and within,
flows a sea of cheer. The rim of my hat
ripples like my wavering mind. Stationed
fifty feet away from the memorial, my eyes
gaze at the pillars, the statue, the white mystery floating, D.C.,
I kindle a fire to heal the world, I cuddle my daughter. Oh dear, love
squiggles in the air. Doves, we love
and live an endless will to conquer the divides of a nation, the unease within.
Palms around my face, I shout a saga from the trembling streets of D.C.
We rise, I carefully brush the blossoms off my hat,
pray for our country to be one. With a solemn glance at the waters, our eyes
blink, in careless whispers, we amble back to the station.
The wave, the cherry flowers, the walk to the station
make me want to see a glimmer of hope and love
in her eyes
again, and again, and again. Deep within,
she wiggles, a joyous tickle shaking the halo of my hat.
A beginning to the end, we undo a moment in the history of D.C.
To a drooping bloom of cherry blossoms in Washington D.C., our hearts beat, hats
bow, love persists in times of tumult, reflecting what’s within.
Floating eyes follow mellow moments as we triumph, walking back to the Smithsonian station.
Born in Mumbai, India, Aruna Gurumurthy is a creative thinker, author, and poet. She has published seven books of poetry since 2015, her recent collection, a penning of love and motherhood that she’s read to children and seniors. Her poems appear in Bellevue Literary Review, storySouth, The Penwood Review, Redheaded Stepchild Magazine and others. Aruna was the runner-up for the 2022 Randall Jarrel Poetry Prize and a semifinalist in the 2022 and 2023 James Applewhite Poetry Prize. Aruna lives with her loving family in Chapel Hill, North Carolina and brings change in the world, one poem at a time. You can find more of her work here.
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