The tree at my window hasn’t gotten the word
that God is dead and all is absurd
that spring shouldn’t come, it all should just end.
We all should take sides, fight for scraps, and defend.
Never all blossoms, too old to change
our story of mountain tops, prophets, and chains
is not what we wanted, who would have sought
to be less like we’re chosen, more like we’re caught
in a dust to dust promise, a frozen year’s end.
Yet soft the magnolia’s floral revenge
dressed all in white with a waistband of pink
Smiling she blooms, laughs, and winks
at the darkness that
damns the fool,
dulls the tool,
arms the cruel,
that it forms the jewel.
see the earth’s peril cry out for our verses.
The hammer strikes bone and the carpenter curses.
Climb high again, framers, there’re ridge beams to raise
over cradles and candles, blessings and praise
and a table to tell of the end of that gloom
which we’ll toast with four cups as magnolias bloom.