The Cherry Blossom Was Her Understudy

The spring cotton slumped from off the trees and floated throughout the outdoor theatre,
whispering here and there,
drifting and exploring through the nooks of the roof and the dusty patron’s seats,
greeting them with their soft 100 percent cottony embrace.

They floated around with the blossoms from the fruitless cherry tree,
their fragrances lingering,
like how you can come away smelling like someone’s cologne once you’ve hugged them.
The aroma of cherries and cotton—
lingering like the perishing souls of the characters portrayed on the stage.

There goes that cherry blossom named Ophelia, the cotton pod—Hamlet.
I watch the bees chase after them,
wanting to pollinate and create little Macbeths and King Henries,
But Ophelia drifts over to the puddle from the sprinklers and lays her delicate head down.