my fingertips smell of magnolias and I
can’t get the fresh air out of my nose it’s a
wonderful persistence this crazy
immediate arrival of spring
I see nothing wrong with
the ides of march it seems lovely and warm
and my fingers smell
of the magnolia I carelessly caressed
(didn’t care who saw)
in front of the hospital,
god and everyone just
me and the sweet flower that
brought me back to my neice
her father
the swing on the magnolia
back to India
to Ottawa in the springtime
and here, just here,
the sweet scent clinging to my skin
in front of god and everyone
on the way home.