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my phone won’t let me take pictures anymore

because i took so many of the damn trees

which is okay because they

never really captured

them plus

things are more beautiful when you don’t see them as often

in late april when

i drive into urbana sometimes it’s like pink rain

magnolia petals like wet cotton

sticking to your skin, magenta veins

when it’s overcast the

trees cast shadows in the street but the sky is still



i’ve noticed when i write poems i always set the scene

maybe because i loved the world

outside my window before i loved any person


he wants to be a writer

you know i

trust him because he’s a boy with more

poetry in him than you’d ever know

my gut is never wrong his

lips are softer than the petals falling into sidewalk gutters

brushed aside by windshield wipers and his

music makes me feel the same euphoria that

thunderstorms do


i can’t

shut up about what i love


once this little girl with sepal green eyes told

me i was a happy person

and i realize now that

it’s a full circle


there a picture of me at fourteen months

under a magnolia tree with

soft tawny hair and the widest smile

so many years have

gone by where it’s been missing

and now

my hair has turned carob and my smile

reappeared wider and

the magnolia petals

spiral down



to the

earth and


everything is



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