In May, the flowering cherries,
with resolute extravagance,
pile layer upon layer
of pink double-petalled blossoms
along leafless branches,
filling the sky
with tutus and princesses.

Under the slow pink snowfall
mothers wheel pink pushchairs
carrying small girls in pink furry hats,
with pink rabbits clutched in pink gloves,
who later will ride pink bikes
and sleep under pink quilts,
in rooms from which
green, yellow, purple, red
and above all blue,
are expunged and deleted.

Their faces may glow pinkly
but they will never sweat,
always giggle helplessly
and wave long pink nails
at any difficult or challenging task.
This pink nirvana
with its rosy Disney turrets
requires no intellect.