Magnolia Tree Revisited

It was I who was mistaken-
Seasons do not follow,
Old words could not lead
Some tale of true permanence.

Sweet, blushing green, still sharp
Cuts from the shadows, intricate,
Until they are clearly jigsawed away,
Swiftly peeled, near unseen,
From the secrets of each breeze.

Here, the only place so pure-
The warmth truly rests, lays
In ripple pools across glass shadow,
(For the summer turns such tides).

Here, the start of suspended pride-
Cracks and crevices holding unfaded sky,
All amid blessed creamy frame, wrought
For the most delicate trickle of light.