The Ring

I dream the April cherry tree
will blossom into season of bliss.
Now it stands naked of every petal and leaf.

On that gently
sloping hillock, she,
in dress the color of raw meat,
turns into chill breeze.

Who would have thought
I would bend,
amid stanchions of wildflowers and ferns,
denuded,
on a battlefield where I burn
in total defeat?

In my left pocket the ring,
sudden anti-symbol,
scorches an irreparable hole.