Magnolia Tree

Magnolia tree,
Your blossom has fluttered to the dirt
A waxy white butterfly
That now, lying motionless,
Shows movement only with the help of the wind.

Firm in it’s descending from the moon,
Its pallid petal-wings
are carefully lifted by the earth’s soft whispering
In your ear.

Only to become rotten, trodden
And appear roasted over heavenly ash
Caked with warm cinnamon stains-
the petal-wings of your flesh.

To have your scent,
Like a summer lemon,
Permeate the walls of an undeserving nose.

I can’t let it be.





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