Overhead a symphony of pink petals
The wind whispers sweet nothings and the still water
The concrete sings to the rhythm of the feet:
tiny, big, pounding, soft.
From deep slumber, the city is awake
yellow rays: pulsating and piercing through blue-grey skies
and the esplanade is alive
with walkers, skaters, and cyclists;
with grins and smiles and the din of joy.
The cherry blossoms flutter to the chorus of: