Audra Puchalski
Every summer, the magnolia tree masks the yard
with white petalfall—undercover snowfall
of winter incognito and lagging because
it loves Michigan and never wants to leave
and I wrestle again with those difficult limbs,
struggle into that flowery sphere
of backyard recompense, swing the blue swing
and climb the cold ladder, only to slip
down the polished slide and land on the dirt. I know
I won't go to heaven. I won't go.