Star Magnolia
Miriam Levine
You’d think it was perfect enough
in spring when its constellation
bloomed till petals turned to rust,
and it had nothing more to tell us,
but when frost roughs the step,
and sleet needles the roof,
and the sky is a blur of gray,
the buds sleep in velvet cases
that shine along branches
and keep faith with the future.
It will be May. The wakened
white stars lambent as flame.