I lost my poem

I held my poem in my hand, as a cherry blossom rained its final petals, when the winds came.

It was a wind without the storm, a cloud without the rain, and it brought blossoms back up to the sky, as if god wanted to turn back time, as if in a prior life, we all had dust in our mouths, and our beloved blossoms were attached only vaguely to their wooden parents.