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and with the sound
of birds again
glistening on
the pane, I found
after a rain
magnolia blooms
all pink and bright
on crooked limbs
with the first light-
green inklings of
the darker leaves
as yet to come.
The heart believes
what it believes.
That much seems true.
And up above:
more clouds, smoke-blue
and pallid-gray.
I doubt if they,
heaped up like gauze
on a wet wound
to the pink applause
of magnolias,
could come and come
and yet convey
no thought of you.