They are chasing
the blossom
from the trees;
little sticks waving.

Each new
and gleeful thrust
brings fresh screams
and a petal shower.

“Too young to understand, poor things.”

Outside
the old house
the family
gathers.

The children's shrill laughs
rake them
as they wait for the cars.

The children call (pink-petal clad
and desirous
their display be not missed.)

Today sad
smiles must appease them.

Motor hum.
‘Children!'
Both drop
sticks
and rush to see.
The hearse is black
and strange to them.
Like fire-scorched trees they stand silently
and stare.