Five Cycles

Cherry blossoms breathe out into morning mist
and die when frost bites its roots;
currents flow like marbles
drained out and rolling
yet another cycle shows its face
a waning crescent half-hanging
in the stark white columns
of peeling change rooms,
as mold shapes and regrows
and arches form above tiny 'x's
spiders scuttle across the wintry soup
of a green wasteland,
tormented by the storm of hunger.