Magnolia

Yellow-sunlit,
the terrace threaded with morning glories,
trickling tiny streams of vines and leaves
between the cobblestones.

No alarm clocks or cell phones,
just the slow drip of melting frost falling from the bluebells
and the hum of bumblebees,
clinging to the flowers in her hair.

Her hands and head are filled with
monarchs and viceroys, cabbage whites and swallowtails,
mission blues and dusky emperors
perching on the lips of magnolias.

They say she was
born with sunshine in her veins and
starlight in her eyes,

but really, she has only the grass stains on her elbows and knees,
the dirt underneath her fingernails,
and the berry blue nectar still sticky on her lips.