Magnolias
Fall forgets the South; just leaves her
in a pile of red clay and roots.
While wind strips Northern trees naked,
the sun beats Alabama dry.
As I sleep to field cricket chirps,
the dust crusts my eyes like sand.
Here, the geography flatlines
like a dying man; horizons
stack in vast rows of tomorrows,
while I wait for zephyrs to blow
past my face and breathe relief
into a baked soul and hardened eyes.
Spring forgot the South, too. And now
I stand in the center and wait
for the first magnolias to bloom.
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