It’s difficult to picture what I want
to give you, but the pale lip of magnolia,
invisibly opening to sing, is the closest.
Its song begins to die the moment it opens
sweetness on the barren air between us.
February is a miracle—hope again
exploding green after the long, cold nights.
That warm look from you, the one
I almost lost, surprising us both.
It won’t last, cupped hands of blossom
catching heaven. It can’t last, blush
sliding up the curve of white petals.
A glorious instant before the rains,
right on time, cradle each sign
of early spring back to wet, dark earth.
The beauty we stand in, impossible to enjoy.