Some Like To Think This Never Was To Happen; or, Progeny of A Fatalist

The magnolia tree's dead,
The blossoms fell from the tips of the stems
Like giant pink crowns off their wilted heads.

They used to be aromatic,
But one day of static from the source and they'd had it,
And fell to the ground in vinegar drafts
On the wind and rescinded their skin down and aft
And rotted in streams where it rained,
A glorious natural perfidious stain
Of pink, like a river no painter's contained
Yet. And it washed down the drain.

And the blame came and shamed them
For loosing their roots, rooted same then
As always had been,
From the trunk to the tip of each blossom headed stem.

For the truth is it always had been that this be,
From the birth of the bee, learning flight to the tree,
Spreading seed, feeding sweet needs of his own
Came the fertile touch, fore he busied off home.

From the making of the dirt, and the hole that was bore
From the rain, from the winds of an ocean meeting shore;
And the Sun that spun Earth at such a force
That gravity demanded that rain fell its course,
And bore there a divot in the dirt for a child
Now lost of his crown to a vinegar river wild,
So fatefully pungently rushing in style
Down the throat of a sewer, as God sat and smiled
At the scene he'd compiled before the Sun had its force
At the scene that'd transpired, and at the child that was born.