It's late August already, and the magnolias
bloom pink and white against the weatherboard houses.
No leaves yet, just brown branches
exuberant with the coming Spring, inviting dwellers
outside to their porches
to sit a while and see the sun
drape its old, warm beams
So this morning, it's the masses of magnolia that charms me,
as well as the moment when I turn into your street,
nearly running over a young man crossing it without a care,
wearing an old flannel shirt, his eyes lifted to the sky
while thinking of the girl he loves, probably.
But really. It feels like you are closer than a hemisphere and a few continents away. It's more like you live in a tree house in my backyard, spying and devising ways to write poems that make my heart twist.
(This is a weird and convoluted way of saying that I like this poem, [of course I do].)