Pavement Magnolias 

Nothing is ever easy here, except, maybe sometimes, 

it is. I am in the kitchen, the garden, the bedroom, the sink, 

appearing everywhere then faltering, like a bird call. Long afternoons 

stretch out on rugs. Wood is laid on a small hearth,

icing sugar sweeps the floor with fondant tendrils. It is impossible 

to believe that everything here, 

everything in sight, 

was made for this moment. Men are power washing cars, 

teenagers trace lines of their former selves in playgrounds. 

Laughter is ripe for picking. Flowers grow oblivious 

to the noise that they won’t be green forever. Likewise, 

this time is precious. This micro meaning, this blue sky. I am shown 

a magnolia tree, rosy-cheeked leaves blushing as they curl over 

to perfume the gravel. The smell is its own music, 

much like a friendly wind chime. I don’t arrive at these sounds 

easily; sometimes, I completely give way. There’s always an overheard 

conversation, always the elusive bass boom of car speakers. Not a bad thing. 

These secrets have always been sleeping, just

so I can go on, take my time, 

& then & then & then