A night frost following an early spring
has blighted the magnolia. Now browned,
its petals droop and fall, littering
like yesterday's confetti on the ground.
Where is its glory now, perfection's blush
that stopped me as I walked to gaze and gaze?
That just one silent stroke could do so much
by stealth to spoil its subsequential days!
The man who walks his dog said, "Never mind.
There's always next year to look forward to,"
but what, of course, he could not understand
was that to me the lovely tree was you.
You, darling, cannot bloom in future years.
Your petals a finality - my tears.
Dorothy Pope
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