Descending States

I could tell you about magnolias,

their cones on the ground, closed

like dozens of doors, sharing

their scent of limes and pine needles.

Unless you relent, you will never

enjoy the music of a mocked twang

more generous than thousands

of escalators and subways.

I won’t defend the grass in August

crunching beneath my sandals

or the humidity sagging

like soaked towels on my shoulders.

You have the bustle of train schedules,

never punctual, but I

have the certainty of the hard-baked

ground and the sun-bleached sky

First published in 2012 in The Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art, vol. 86, p. 69.