Petals from cherry blossoms flutter through streams of morning sunlight. Katja shivers and asks, “Musst du gehen?”
I don’t answer. “Are you cold?”
The light tumbles through her long hair, shadows shaken. “Ich will mit dir spazieren gehen.” Her slow smile spreads concertedly.
Gravel crunches under our feet. A bird sings forlornly, hidden in the trees.
Too much to be explained. Instead, I consider sparkling motes and blooms, not falling, but dancing.
“Wann kommst du zurück?”
Would an answer be considered a promise? By whom? A petal clings unnoticed to Katja’s blouse, its tip the color of her lips.
Picture is copyright by Christopher Kreymborg. (100 words)