The glory of cherry blossom is short lived:a week, two if the weather is not her usual moody self. Pilgrims flock to pay homage, enthralled by the burst of colors. The pilgrims become poets as they sing about the beauty and brevity of life, how they go together like the sound and silence of music.
Spring colors, sun-blanched white and velvety pink, please the eyes. But there is a sigh of pleasure in seeing the dull russet of the closed buds of cherry blossom in the crisp chill of autumn. It is not the vivacity of spring, but it is certainly not death. It is the color of life that accepts and refuses death by letting go, rebellion and acquiescence of the churning cycle of life.
Autumn, with her deeper and somber hues, earthy and swarthy, these last breaths of leaves, before they pirouette down to the fate of wind, feet, and rakes.