Song of the Early Magnolias
Gentlest alchemy of air, the early magnolias
hold their fragrant lamp-bowls aloft at dusk,
defying March. Can’t be snowing, yet it is—
in the cloud spaces, the downrush of cold
halts abruptly as a flurry tenders the wind.
Pausing at the window, I echo, it is snowing,
and you say, no, it cannot be true. It’s not.
We see the day floating from truth to truth
on a reel of shared experience, where God
holds all truth as one singularity flashing
frame by frame, the little ashes of our lives.
I whisper, transience—I marvel to know
