The beginning of the thaw
is rain, and slick mud, but soon
perhaps pale cherry blossoms?
The walls have been painted fresh,
as if for new graffiti,
the red of cherries and lips.
Are you a virgin, they asked?
Confused, my lips made an “Oh!”
while Quinn bit hers, glossy tart.
There is always a first time,
for many things: first by choice,
and the first time not by choice.
They say “popping the cherry”
because of the blood, perhaps,
but other parts also bleed.
There is a mountain, a sea.
The sakura don’t live long.
It will be lonely, I’m sure.