HER NAME WAS FLORINE

If I am lost in April,
I can be found in Japan
under the rising sun
and the time past far away.

I am vulnerable today,
in between the poetry
of cherry blossoms paled in silence,
and her voice
whispering in the wind.

I can still feel her,
like silk against my skin,
when her last kiss
died against my lips.

I taste her scent of jasmine
in the air,
with memories of night rain
and lost poems.

She was the understated elegance
of a Japanese tea ceremony.
The sweet morsel to balance the taste
of the bitter green tea.
The simple flower in the sacred alcove
that changes from season to season.
The mysterious tranquil beauty
that exists just below the surface
of a well formed ceramic tea bowl
in perfect harmony with the potter
and the earth.

She was but one chance in a lifetime.
A combination of art forms
to not only be appreciated hour by hour
and year by year,
but moment by moment,
like color on rare silk
or the fragrance of a morning rose.

She was the essence of the Japanese character
that speaks of serenity found in simplicity...

Her name was Florine.

© JOHN PISCATELLA