Like a Keats poem

The weeping cherries in our neighborhood are blooming again. My favorite one is so wide that I can’t even fit half of it in the frame of my camera and so tall that it can be seen from blocks away–like a low, white cloud. The canopy is so perfectly domed that when you stand beneath it, the branches completely enclose you. This tree is like a Keats poem. My father almost rented the home it grows beside and I was thrilled at the prospect because then I would have been able to lie beneath it for hours and hours watching the bees happily bustle amongst the blossoms, and the breeze gently sway the flower-laden branches. But he did not, so instead I find any excuse to walk down that road, brushing my fingers across the flowers as I pass thinking how fleeting and perfect spring’s beauty.