Tickled Pink

Bloomin' Love

Black is the color of my true love’s suit.

Suits – black, serious, ‘don’t mess with me’ suits – crowd the sidewalks of downtown L Street in Washington, D.C.

It’s April, Easter week, normally bloom-time in our nation’s capitol, where this year marks the 100th anniversary of the planting of the cherry trees that frame the Tidal Basin – trees which launched a million postcards and a few haiku.

But not this year.

Pods of tourists, easily identified by their sneakers, backpacks, baseball caps, and bewildered expressions, wander uneasily behind the suits, perhaps wondering where have all the flowers gone. The blossoms came and went before most of the tourists arrived. So now they’re branching out, exploring D.C.’s other options. They take photos of buildings, landmarks, the few Occupy D.C. tents still hanging on in Farragut Square.

The suits are too preoccupied for festivals or protests. The Occupy movement, like the cherry blossoms, is so last month.

Some thoughtful observers wonder if the record-smashing heat in March, which accelerated the cherry blossoms’ bloom and drop, might be another symptom of global warming, like the monster tornadoes in Texas, earthquakes in Central Virginia and the skyrocketing stinkbug population.

Don’t ask me. I just came for the cherry blossoms.

Fluffy, pink, fleeting.
They’re gone. And soon, so am I.
Adios, black suits.

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