The magnolia tree is blooming. And it is spring.
Another spring and another breath.
A rare patina shines on everything
and for a precious moment cancels death.
The magnolia tree is blooming. And it is spring.
How many more springs will I stop to stare,
finding in the pink blossoms a signature,
and a correspondent, both absent and there,
a love letter from the Prince of Grandeur?
The magnolia tree is blooming. And it is spring.