The magnolias are expectant hands. Fleeting cupped promise.
Midday warmth drips honey slow and enormous petals extend out, somersaulting down.
Silken soft.
White heart brave.
Longing to live with such blatant abandon.
To pour my everything into rampant, gorgeous crowns of life
that fall effortlessly to the ground,
becoming humus for next season.
Is this how we bear fruit in keeping with repentance?
