Tea Party Between Close Friends

I wish it could always rain petal-- like it does in haiku--
the wedding of earth and sky.
As I read I let Basho paint.
Petals of red and pink, white and peach
drift like the lazy path of a honeybee.
The wind, or the breath of the trees,
Follows them as they spiral down towards the river
and its tremendous rapids. And the moment
the rose petals touch its surface they are
gone, the delicate flesh ripped, colors contrasting
like autumn leaves against a backdrop of sky.
Water drifts, and floating on the breeze,
rose petals roar, caressing the rotting wood of a
long-neglected bridge.
On the backs of my eyelids, as I read, I see Monet.
The half-finished bridge becomes whole and elegant,
rose petals land on lily pads and become entrapped in the
billowy hair of a willow tree.
On the bank both artists sit, legs crossed,
drinking tea and eating those small raspberry tarts.

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