Magnolia

It is that kind of day.
Where the driftwood splinters in the wild
like a return.
Where the wind rips at hearts, hair strands
grasping spindly for the North.

Where nothing is known.

The far birds scream for the sky to burn
in this moment of birth.
Shadows jitter under leaves, animating
the yawning ground.
Everything said and done is no more.
The cold dissipates like vapor.

No law reaches the untouched body
of the source.
We twist and turn in place.

It is that kind of day.
Where all I see is you
in the progenitor cradle,
animal as anything.
Your blue gene eyes
feral in the morning shine.
All human command
perfectly meaningless.

The setting sun
saturates white petals.
The magnolia was here
before the bees.
It will also blossom
when everyone is gone.