magnolia girl
rosemary blossoms cling to the magnolia’s
in the early arms of may, I collect them from
her in a single plucking of one blossom on
days where I feel like being the magnolia
girl, I place them in my hair like girls wear
dead swans about their neck, but I think
that wearing magnolias is a bit more
humane, if we’re perfectly honest with
each other; I wear the magnolia’s out in
the eyes of a public skepticism I ignore;
fashion is only relative to those that wear
it, and I am comfortable within the limits
of my own skin to make a fashion statement
such as this, it’s not like I’m wearing gaga’s
meat dress or ripping heads off bats like ozzy.
I’m just the magnolia girl with flowers in
her hair, laughing as the teeth of zephyr pull
my hair back, wafting the scent of roses and
their sisters past my nostril as I commune in
the company of nature and my pretty friends
that come to me in flitting blossoms of
words more infinite and enormous than the
depths of the ocean which would whisk my
magnolia’s away if it were given that chance.
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