There are no blossoms. That’s the first thing I noticed about this year’s Sakura Matsuri a.k.a. Cherry Blossom Festival at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. And yes, it’s the opening line of a haiku I wrote and was muttering to myself while pushing my way through the hundreds of other festival goers on the so-called Cherry Esplanade (no trees in bloom), getting body-checked by backpacks, and my foot run over by strollers pushed by parents with that look in their eye. And if there are no cherry blossoms, how exactly does one contemplate the beauty and fragility of life and death?