The Blossoming

My magnolia metaphor serves me well once again.

 Her flowered arms stretched out

like a perpetual yawn,

drinking in the sunny drops that fed

her wax-shined leaves and supple buds.

Clothed in silky pink and white,

she blossomed, prospered, bathed in summer’s radiance,

armed against the inevitability of time…

until the Ravishment.

 

Winter’s sordid heralds came, fittingly,

under sheets of unstarred darkness

trampling o’er the bed of milky petals that she’d laid,

ripping off each waning, brittle leaf,

leaving her now near-lifeless branches bare and undefended

‘gainst the unrelenting fingers of the Cold.

 

Thus affixed in naked majesty,

she offers up her frail, unburnished hands

unto the greying, cloud-brushed sky,

and is reclothed in glistening slips whose chill

reflects frosty deed that stole her vibrancy.

Disgraced, she sleeps beneath a shield of frozen glass.

 

Yet even now remains the constant promise of the sky-fixed globe

whose rays will melt away those snowy memories.

And when, arising from her slumber in that soft,

perpetual yawn, the newborn buds will sweetly peep

from between the waxing leaves, birthèd anew.

Attired thus in spring’s redemption

she shall see her blossoming.

Author's Note

Written for a friend as a reminder the spring will always come eventually.