Beneath the aging cherry tree 

He sits 

Alone, 

A lone blossom atop his bare head. 

The afternoon wind comes through— 

The prayer beads— 

The sandalwood spheres like weathered stones— 

Dance lightly to the breeze 

While his hand holds them tightly 

Like a memory 

Fading with the wind. 

His eyes shut 

And his face serene, 

He hides from the world 

His legs crossed— 

A solid statue draped 

In orange robes. 

I approach 

With care 

As to not crack 

The fragile serenity. 

Between his lips— 

Hidden like a shy dove— 

Under the cloak 

Of the cherry blossoms 

A snore sneaks out.