a clock without hands

After the (many) overlapping months, I should have something to say. An unnecessary excuse, a monotonous detail of my life that I try to make interesting, flowery language to beget ornate visions of flowers. I was overtaken by hanami season. There were daily cherry blossom viewings. Sakura daifuku. Oukashigure. Cherry blossom sparkling sake. Sakura gum. Grand plans with T. to make a map of all of the cherry blossom trees in New York City with rudimentary watercolors by yours truly. Somehow, it feels like we've seen them all (charting the progress of various gardens, parks, and tree-lined avenues), yet we haven't seen enough.
I wrote the above nearly a month ago, at the tail end of hanami season. Since then, I have locked in my memory evening meetings down Cherry Blossom Lane with tuna sashimi and peppercorn sake, the day spent under the raining Kanzan trees, and more recently, several Sunday sakura-sleuthing jaunts. Wherein, T. & I sadly return to the blossom-bare trees and through the dark olive foliage, we rub our eyes in disbelief, and discover a single pink flower glowing in the sun.