i want to write
about the cherry blossom trees
on campus but i don't know
what i could say that would
be wanted or needed 
that's why we should avoid
the subject of flowers all together
but here i go 
i stood at the end of 
the path and let the wind 
pull a handful of pink
from branches
i imagine un-see-able fingers 
raking sweet color from my hair  
how can that happen?
how can the wind and 
the tree conspire like
that to make an image 
so unknowable?
from inside a building
i watch the tree
hoping wind will come
again and i think 
of a class i took
years ago where we found
ourselves arguing
about what is and isn't art
the professor pointed 
and said 
well the tree, we can
agree the tree isn't art 
and, only inside myself,
i said no 
if the tree isn't art 
i could never know 
what else is
i'm inside now 
thinking what pink
the wind might sifting 
for in me 
if the petals argue 
about whether or not
my body standing
feet away 
is a work of art 
or just a conspiracy
of image