My cherry tree has twigs not boughs
But still provokes occasional “wow”s.
Growing beside my stepping stones,
It sometimes gets some peevish moans.
Unwary guests need to be told
To “mind those petals – my white gold”!
Until by April’s end they’re set;
Blossom has so short a let.
Houseman died as I was born
And, now my bible span is gone
I’m taking his advice to heart
And view my tree as living art.