A poem by GEORGE DENNIS.
The radio still mutters through the open window,
we should have stayed to hear her speak one last time,
instead, I took a tall glass under the cherry-plum blossom.
Her searching words lost in the hum of insects,
in the languid sighs of courtiers.
Village children showered him with flowers
then disappeared in the afternoon glow.
By the riverside, mothers tended his wounds
and picked softs petals from his hair.
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