Magnolias

Budding in early April,

the bare-branched trees

are candelabras, their tips

flames of white, purple,

mauve, the rare yellow.

We are allowed to gush

over them, the event

of their opening cups,

their yielding into pretty

party gowns, as Étienne,

toiling in his arboretum

for the Empress Josephine,

must have wept with joy

over his hybrids, over

each individual angel.

Tonight, the maiden moon,

intoxicating scent;  I am

thinking of you, how seductive

and perilous the metaphor.

But it is spring, a time

of indulgence, and we are far

from France, under exotic skies,

flowers trumpeting their magic:

I cannot stop looking at them,

thinking of how quickly they fade.