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.








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