Pink Forests

Kellyn Baker

We drove in a tall stagecoach, pumping fumes 
out of the exhaust pipe. Out my window, 
the most beautiful sight I ever saw:
Cherry trees, at the start of their season,
blossoming pink petals that float
to the ground. Beside me, 
she scrolled through her phone, 
her nails painted royal blue. 
I once read that blue is the rarest color
to be found in nature, but I am content with this
knowledge. Blue can belong to the sky, 
where it remains truthful.

We entered the capital city where lawful liars
worked in towers. There was no more
pink coating the ground. 
And much more blue—an imitation, 
another lie. She looked up, embracing 
the new view, a city rich 
with history and cheap souvenirs. 

I wonder who ever thought 
to build a black road right 
through the pink forest—to interrupt 
a world where nature takes 
years to grow, where blue can only be seen 
in the sky, and the sun governs 
honestly.

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