Breathing Death
The pink magnolias creased, bruise-brown, well nigh
Immediately in springtime air. The breeze
Came blustering and wrinkled in the dye
Of death on unsuspecting trees.
Of course they will not die, not yet, nor yet
These fleshy blossoms opened yesterday,
Yes, yesterday. We easily forget
That we’ve been open to the scything sway
Of dark wind harm that springs up in the night
While our spread limbs are sleeping fleshily,
And when we think of it, the thought is slight.
Not even April cares especially.
We give as much attention to our death
As air and breezes notice petal breath.