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,
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.