Mortgage

I

Nothing wears its cape of spring like

the magnolia tree in their yard does

after waking from the naked ugliness

of its gnarled, rough stumps of winter,

when it spreads its large, focused petals and

steals out of the air a perfectly paired

color for the sky behind. Spiders come

with warm days, only to vanish again.

Nests shake in it, flayed and throttled through the

stormy winter, gather freshly picked twigs,

dead after the February spurt, and

thrive, grow loud in their evening chorus.

Over the slippery yard of cobblestones

bright open petals cover lines of ants.

II

They take turns sleeping – he wakes at three,

jet-lagged and out of whack. She sleeps, so he

tiptoes around the house, throws a blanket

over her toes, drinks coffee, dozes off.

There won’t be any children in this house for

a few years. There are kinks to iron out; who

makes the time for it? Will it be the same

in three years? In six? How long does love last?

The bag of beans in the pantry gets worms;

garlic and onions grow green through neglect

and potatoes grow new toes before they

get remembered. Outside, testing each leaf

in the mess and strewn magnolia riot

of white, ants brush past the small threat of night.