Magnolia

Today a magnolia seed pod
as full and sensuous
as life in the sixties displays itself.

It is the lowest cone on the tree
and has not yet opened
its furry follicles.

Crimson dye of the maturing fruit
bleeds through the conelike
aggregate

staining its furry skin from beneath,
like red wine flushes
the threads of a linen napkin

I want to touch each of its multiple
furry end-to-end seams,
to caress the tender swollen tinge.

I don't touch it, though
don't break it
don't carry it home;

just as I didn't touch the flower
that opened there
in the spring.