Villanelle

I am awful at writing in form. It makes me feel like I am wearing overly starched clothes and being made to sit still in church on a cold hard wooden pew for hours on end. Still, I tried to write a villanelle last year, using my own "20 Minute Villanelle" instructions (archives 2-1-05). Looking at it now, I think it turned out not too awfully. I might be able to salvage it.


The Star Magnolia


Each morning when I rise, I look to the magnolia tree,
watch it billow like a lung, filling itself with light.
But I have only just begun to see it.

Before work, before the hot black coffee,
I stand at the window in my robe, clear my mind.
Each morning when I rise, I look to the magnolia tree,

limbs branching in every direction, leaf dividing from leaf.
Soon petals will fall, the fruits thicken in the night,
but I have only just begun to see it.

Amid long dark mornings of rain turned to sleet,
the frosted limbs will sway and click with ice
each morning when I rise. I look to the magnolia tree,

until the tree and I become only the tree.
Soon the velvety buds will be stippled with white —
but I have only just begun to see it.

Last night, branches full of stars. (Was it only a dream?)
Now blossoms crowd the sky.
Each morning when I rise, I look to the magnolia tree,
but I have only just begun to see it.