Magnolia wept heroic white tears
flushed with magenta modesty
like curls of paper she sheds them each spring,
they are alien amongst her bare arms
as if the autumn sacrifice of leaves
has not been enough, she must denude
herself further. She didn’t seem naked before.
The petals propose a finer reality
conspicuous wax-like infallibility.
A nameless surface, a form sublime:
cradle to a thousand angels. Or to
a flock of brooding flamingos. The petals
drop, turn brown and rot. Heaven retreats a pace.
