Magnolia

Spared its messy bletted petals now
in leaf

I get lost in the soft tips of the cedar tree
hanging over the fence

My parents melt into deckchairs
like American cheese

Two tits feed on the fat balls
swinging beneath acid maple leaves

Out of season socks patterned with penguins
revolve slowly on the rotary washing line

That window
I used to press against to see the snow

The other one
I’d crack to smoke

The grass is green
of course

And the flagstones
smooth and flat

are quiet

Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about trees and plants (mostly) and people (sometimes) and other unimportant things. His work has featured widely both in print and online including Viridine Literary, Pulp Poets Press, Bodies on Bodies Magazine, Lunar Sea Literary, Fixator Press, Password, The Lake, The Cannon’s Mouth, Coin Operated Press, Sextet, Alocasia and 100subtexts Magazine.