Soft and Unclaimed

Cherry blossoms part the mist

in silent contentment,

petals brushing the morning

without intention.

Fog loosens around the branches,

yielding gently—

not pushed away,

only invited to pass.

A few petals fall,

not as loss,

not as ending,

but as movement continuing itself.

Light settles where the mist was,

soft and unclaimed.

The blossoms do not celebrate.

They do not mourn.

They simply open,

and the world rearranges itself

around their quiet yes.