The cherry blossoms at Mitsubishi.
It wasn't so nice this year. On the train to Osaka, some trees of a dirty pink were propped by a riverbank, a crop of feather-dusters. The day was blue, except for a gray-around-the-collar industrial horizon.
In the streets, the season's noise: from election trucks the same man's name blared over and over--and years of the cherry's praise in poems that like blossoms fell once, quietly, down the page were drowned in a wash of talk. When it rained later that week, and the blossoms scattered, damp on each surface like a stamp you can only affix once, I was on my way to work near Mitsubishi Motors and watched a woman back out of the petal-littered lot reserved for company cars.
Was she in a hurry? Bored? Windshield flower-encrusted, blindly she turned a corner and entered the spring parade as if, an aging beauty assigned to the final float, she'd show how the world itself grows less notable yearly.