How I have longed to see spring in its full glory.

Today the magnolia tree flowers,

fuzzy and heavy with the memory of winter,

were slow in pushing back their olive green sleeves.

Only a few pink faces were peeking out,

opening their arms to the sun.


In the surrounding browns and faded days of winter,

their eyes were a promise

of a fuller beauty to come,

a small sort of treasure when time has stretched on.


These little signs,

the softening of barked limbs

by shawls of tiny green leaves,

and the warmth of sunlight

only moments before so stark and thin,

soothe the ache but do not take it away.


I’m still left imagining,

completing the half-formed tree

in my mind’s eye.


I’m still left wanting

the extravagant scene

of branches laden and overflowing, throwing

down their petals like blessings,

like snow,

for spring to come back and make its home

and death and dying to be done.


Along the road a sidewalk chalk blossom offered me its charm

to fill the space left while I wait.

But I knew that it would fade

under the sun’s light or be swept away

by stronger waters.

And anyway, I could not hold it in my hand

and feel its weight.


So I walked on, thinking

that I would rather carry

this certainty instead

that richer love was on its way.