The Japanese have a word for it,

the pathos of things,

the sense of how fleeting beauty

is, as they revel in the comeliness

of the cherry blossoms, the Sakura,

so lovely, so transient,

so still.

 

“Mono no aware,” they call it,

“muhnó nó áre wuh ray,” they say,

and all know then to savor such

beauty as befalls us, for

just a while.

 

For then, in but a breath of time,

mere memory remains, its moment

having come and gone and left us

wistful for what once

was.

 

How fleeting, every day that ever dawned,

and in the end, how like the flight of

a thrush or the trill of its song that

graces the air for just a moment

and then is done.

 

Let us savor the enchantment of

what is. Rejoice in the promise of

the day, in the yearning of the seedling

for the sun.

 

In the scent of a new mown lawn, rejoice.

In the swaying of the iris in the shade of an elm,

and in the dusty haze of a fading day,

rejoice.

 

In the laughter of the children at play,

in the sound of a voice, near or far.

In the love we give, and all we have,

for such time that is allotted us,

rejoice.

 

For all that is and yet may be,

in all its passing splendor,

rejoice.