Magnolia Cone Madrigal

Primitive angiosperm, genus 
prior even to bees,

autumn’s also my tongue, 
gossamer-threaded spindle

of ovarian fire set amidst leathery 
tepals. How survive eons

of Earth’s glacial mow, torrid grist, 
thus exposed? Follicled fist,

carpeled blazon seed-clits cajoled 
toward split & go, O, Magnol,

French botanist, more than the cake- 
like flesh of summer, so redol, so thick

it turns me wet, these swollen spears 
make me mourn the life I’ll leave.