Photo by C Scodova
And what about the Magnolia
breaking open in the menagerie
of the moment,
slipping on the pale-
pink gloves of light?
Rumpled petals spilling their fragrant,
into the cobalt vials of sky,
the finality of the dark-
Isn't this, also, a kind of prayer
in the folding-hands of evening,
when old rain-clouds begin
kneeling into the spring-bright green
and miles of every blossoming ascending?