Magnolia In A Containment Zone

Look through the window, watch it sway
in the April breeze; when it’s still it exudes
a certain sense of grace, and when it dances,
hearts beat to its beats, eyes dart where it moves,
breaths ease into a tune, love finds a bed to rest,
and I turn to my room in a dream—deserted
as the street, dust plays its games unfettered,
an emptiness in my chest echoed down below,
words escape into thin air, screams stifled within,
emotions lie to be rinsed in a washing machine,
reset to default on a clothesline that overlooks
unoccupied spaces on the sidewalk, unoccupied
sights for crowded eyes, shadows in windows across
the street, sights dancing to the magnolia’s trance,
no chance, they said, no chance for us to prance,
no chance for mirth to embrace, no hugs in this day,
neither tomorrow nor next week, life this still
resembles water frozen to a rock, life this cold
allows us to grow older in front of a mirror;
show me, o mirror, show me what I will be,
what I was, and what I am—a portrait of me,
etch me, sketch me, I have nothing to do
except admire an elegance all day:
in this containment zone,
the white magnolia sways.