Slender boughs tremulous under the weight
of tight-lipped buds, pink like dawn’s blushing glow,
she peeps from the garden, standing tiptoe,
feels the sun’s caress. Like the call of fate,
silken rays command the buds to unfurl,
and burst forth in springtime’s dizzying whirl.
A whimsical breeze o’er the garden plays,
fills each flower’s chalice with melody,
his laughter finds an echo in the tree,
rustling, whispering of joyous summer days
to come, and under the spell of his song,
the magnolia blooms and dreams all night long.
A sudden summer storm. A cloak of night
muffles the pallid moon; sky torn apart
by lightning, like a cry wrenched from the heart.
The magnolia shudders with strange delight,
the breeze engulfs her in a wild embrace,
as half-abashed, each flower hides its face.
Breathless morning finds the tree all forlorn,
aloof in the stillness. Blossom’s tatters
Strewn on the ground like a dream that shatters
in the cold light of day. In silence mourn
the disheveled boughs, for the breeze is still,
a crushed petal falls on the windowsill,
limp like a discarded ribbon, some sink
into the sparse patch of soil, or are blown
to the street to be trampled by feet unknown.
Dirt obscures the petals’ once pearly pink,
yet from their deaths will next year’s blooms be born,
So, dear magnolia, look not so forlorn!
Shy of beauteous ruin, the breeze stays away,
repentant; soon in gaudy leaves she smiles,
regretting her blooms no more, she beguiles
the breeze once more as friends to laugh and play.
At times the breeze remembers in his flight
The scent of petals in the passionate night.
