& nowhere the clouds. we stroll sandwiched: shirtless
jocks, their pickleballs, & salesmen begging us to sign
off their leave, so that they too can stand empty
handed. lobby for space to graze their feet, survey
the sky for rumors of pink. april, now. this whole
season i’ve searched for winter, missing sight of any
snow stuck on the sidewalk. over there, S says. cherry
blossoms. how can you tell, we ask. because it was there
last year. like it’s obvious, the way memory stares
us down from the street corner, always a green light
away. daring us to turn back & find. i try not to
look too far, not to think about the dead
confetti, the stipples of white & pink, the processions
& their pigmented wake. but you do, & so i can’t
help but marvel at the branches still bare around us,
at all our arms still covered, & wonder: once the pinks
have flowered & fallen & once they’ve relearned
blossom, who will pause & wait, remember that i was
here, today, & know that means i must be, again
This poem first appeared in EcoTheo Review (2024).
—
Holly Zhou is a poet and mixed-media artist from the California desert, the unceded territory of the Cahuilla and Mojave peoples. Holly’s poetry has appeared in The Kenyon Review and elsewhere. When not writing, they can be found exploring rocks by the ocean or in the mountains.
