Yellow plumes of afternoon
streak the empty street.
Blossoms plaster-
boarded doors, and
battered rooftops creak.
Amongst the breeze-blown
cherry snow, unease seeds
then start to grow—
a forboding discordant
with the flurrying day-glo.
Suddenly, the leaves
skittering across
the sidewalk morph
into footfall.
My pulse flutters
at the new sound of pursuit,
a pacing unseen and
dread imbued.
Inhale.
There’s nothing
out of place here.
Exhale.
The branches tremble,
spindly frail.
The winds rise.
It’s a brilliantly bright spring day.
The winds die.
Something inside has gone astray.
pm poetry 