At dawn, the world held its breath.
Beneath the cherry blossoms of Central Park,
spring unfolded like a whispered secret.

The trees—bending, blooming—
seemed to recall a softer time,
when beauty needed no witness,
only light.

Petals floated like memories.
Color bled into the sky,
and the air shimmered with stillness,
as if nature itself had pau        sed
just long enough
to be seen.

Inspired by the spirit of the Hudson River painters—