The Cherry Blossom Moment by Lake Toya

The cherry blossoms by "Lake Toya" have bloomed—bloomed extravagantly, bloomed wildly, bloomed so profusely they nearly spill over the lakeshore, submerging the entire sculpture park in waves of pink-white petals. This year's cherry blossom photography trip to Japan required meticulous planning, especially in timing. I had been closely following the solemn forecasts from the Japan Meteorological Agency—the "Sakura Front." "Hokkaido, being the last region in Japan to welcome cherry blossoms, typically sees peak bloom from late April to mid-May." Easier said than done. With nearly 30 days of blooming period and unpredictable weather abroad, it felt like spinning a roulette wheel—wherever it stopped, that's where I'd go. The concept of "mankai" (full bloom) is taken very seriously in Japan. Before blooming, people eagerly anticipate it; at the cusp of blooming, they measure each petal's progress with the precision of measuring a maiden's hemline. And when "mankai" arrives, it's an all-out spectacle—every petal unfurled without reservation. I was completely unprepared for Lake Toya's "mankai." I didn't even know how many cherry trees stood here. Before arriving, I only knew that Lake Toya never freezes, that its shores are dotted with sculptures, that there's a dedicated observatory, and that tonight I'd be staying in a lakeside room. Encountering "mankai" cherry blossoms at Lake Toya was pure luck. The cycling path along the lake was lined with "Ezo-yamazakura," said to be a variety unique to Hokkaido. Compared to Kyoto's "Somei Yoshino," their petals are slightly thicker and darker in color. Now at full bloom, the blossoms clustered on branches—from afar like clouds or mist, up close each flower stood vibrant, proudly displaying its perfect five-petal form. The afternoon sun slanted westward, piercing through petals so clearly you could see the veins, as if witnessing sap flowing within. For the first time, I saw branch after branch of blossoms backlit by the sun—their semi-transparent petals becoming natural filters. Edges shimmered with mother-of-pearl iridescence; thin areas revealed delicate veins like cicada wings, while thicker parts glowed with honey-colored halos. Each flower became self-illuminating, its five-petal outline traced in gold, overlapping layers blending into watercolor shades of pink. The park's sculptures took on new life beneath the cherry blossoms. Those modern, hard-edged metal and stone works seemed wrapped in soft petals. One abstract giant-faced statue wore a cluster of blossoms atop its head—from a distance, resembling a Greek deity crowned with flowers. Another bronze human figure had branches threading through it, petals adorning its form as if the metal itself had bloomed, radiating unexpected tenderness. I settled in at the "Lake Toya Sun Palace Hot Spring Hotel" by the shore. Soaking in the open-air onsen, gazing through rising steam at Lake Toya's islands in twilight; Sitting on tatami in my room, watching the "Lake Toya Fireworks Festival" outside my window, Faye Wong's new song "What the World Gave Me" seemed to play in my ears: "Some set off fireworks, others chase the evening breeze... Borrow a moment of time, hold a piece of starry sky... Gift me a poem, then read it softly in silence..."