Southerly Wind

The sky is the color of Regina Spektor's eyes, 

a water-thin turquoise ocean, you say,

and clouds rush like an anxious flotilla northward. 

The Japanese magnolia is blooming, you say,

and the pink-white blossoms 

open like the cupped hands of our daughters. 

Would you believe me, my wife, if I said

I lied to you, if I said I lied

about talking to you in my sleep?

What would you say if I said

I never thought I could love anyone,

anyone but you? Would you believe me?

The Japanese magnolia trembles in this wind.

The tree unflowers, you tell me, one-by-one, 

the nine petals of each bloom.

 

Oh, my friend, we have no words 

for the blush and tumble of these petals

littering the winter-bleached lawn.

Look, I say. A  ragged line of crows 

meanders against the wind, calling 

onesies and twosies to one another. I suppose

I need this day to flow, to keep right on flowing,

just as you do, my darling, just as I wish it to

keep on pouring into my heart, into our hearts.

Tomorrow, I'll write a poem

and say we walked barefoot on the lawn. 
I'll say we danced like teenage lovers

beneath the Japanese magnolia,

and we watched, we watched each other

kicking the fallen petals windward.  

And I'll tell you the truth. I'll tell you the truth.

The sky is the color of your turquoise eyes.