magnolia

in this world, we never truly dissapear

when i die, i hope for a magnolia to my name

planted over my ashes in a lush grove near a southern lake,

so that every summer a tire swing can hang from my branches

for teenage lovebirds, in their fleeting moments

to carve their initials gingerly into my skin

the ospreys, hawks, and their feathered kin among me

the air of the brackish waters dampening my skin

the cicadas singing from my fingertips

warily, i will wilt my petals

and shed my leaves

just to live again