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P
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The day Congress announced their articles of impeachment,
it snowed in Mississippi: big, puffy snow-globe flakes

that fell like fake news at the end of a long, brittle year.
On my walk, I look for the understory, the autumn olive

and its sweet scent I mistake for magnolia.
Nature is not civil, no allegory for sorrow, for the clusters

of pale white Calyx, tiny bells ringing toward the end
of its blooming, invasive as thoughts. What starts

dormant in winter’s dark becomes the whisper of spring—
I want to be close to the telling, to small desires that matter.