Magnolias

I’m here so infrequently now I almost don’t remember my password. Yikes. Well, in the effort to get myself back to writing, here is a thing I wrote about spring.

 

After so many months of slate-dark skies we lost faith

in the sun. Calendars turn purposeless

when rain follows rain and clouds

lie heavy over the cities

like dirt over old bones

which are becoming fossil –

rock, dead, but once living.

The dead don’t need sunlight, don’t care

whether it’s warm or when

or if

the sun

shatters down to the surface.

We do not want to be dead.

 

We do not want to be dead, but spring’s promise

is late, we think, so we assume the worst:

a year of mud instead of flowers

clouds instead of sky

brown instead of pink

gray instead of blue.

Our world closes in, drains our colors,

and offers only a cloudy day

a cloudy day

a cloudy day

a cloudy day.

 

When the flowers do bloom, they bare their faces

hesitantly. They are pallid, limp, ghostly attempts

at themselves. They know what they could be –

vibrant, fearless, blazing –

but they don’t know how,

not without the sun.

 

Sometimes change is subtle and

sometimes it is abrupt –

a match flares while a coal

simmers –

a car crash ends a life while another life stretches

until, piece by piece, one at a time,

it breaks down.

 

When the promised change came, it came subtly.

It came purposefully, with beauty designed,

first as a warm rain

and a smell of healing earth, then

as gentler mornings and rose-gold evenings,

and on the third day they rolled

the stone away and the rain stopped

and the magnolias bloomed,

so that whosoever believed

would have eternal spring.

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2 thoughts on “Magnolias

  1. This is lovely, Laura! I’m really glad you shared it on here. I think about the false feeling of permanence a lot as it relates to my depression and have been trying to get it in writing. Not quite there yet, but I’ll keep on.

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