Jesus Sakura

It’s only after hanami, 
Season of cherry blossom-viewing,  
That I meet Christ in Fukuoka 
As all the petals are leaving.  
He startles me in every spent sakura— 

Castaway pink and star-flushed 
Flowers spiraling freely faraway,  
Frail slants trodden into cement  
Puddled, soiled and rainless 
Tears luminous without count. 

These tossed leaps of hue grace drab  
Ditch, grate, and trash-banked canal 
With transient jewels whose after-image 
Still glows behind my corneas 
Long after remnant form has gone.  

My Savior, my Sakura— 
I would learn to let you 
Grace me, too.