Spring awakened a morning of blossoms;
the evidence of night color drained
like a moon governing tide.
Low on a magnolia tree, at the crossroads
of branches, a flower, no less strong in color
than those canopied above, spread its
paddle fan pedals richly in pearl and pink.
The approach of a late afternoon sun
teased the flower into full openness
before the slippers of night passed
satin hands over its surface, folding it
into rest; a far greater sight than
kings and glory.