Magnolia

A haibun

I was a boy — a teenager, and I used to go down to the creek at the end of the road, over the small hill through the trees, to sit, fish, write, or dream. In the magnolia-scented air, she used to come and bathe alone sometimes, and from the shadows of the trees, she was sensuality itself. Among the pangs I felt, of fantasy, there grew also the yearning of love.

When she saw me she told me I could stay if I wanted but never to tell anyone, so I did not, ever, but watched her bathe, and she’d smile her smile towards the trees where I stood.

Once or twice I saw her in town, and she would pinch my reddening cheek and giggle. Later, I met her again when I came back from overseas. This time she did not pinch, and instead hugged, tightly. She was a few years older than me, but the first time I touched her with my lips she shivered like a fresh flower in bloom.

When she was hit by a car, I visited her every day in hospital. Now, when I go to see her, I always cut a branch or two from the magnolia tree that hangs over the crystal waters where she bathed nude.

I place them in her lap, brushing the petals first to her face so she can feel their softness, and smell their fragrance, and then I lift her to her wheelchair, to take her out to the park and share the sunlight with me.

People sometimes ask me when magnolias blossom. They never stop blossoming.

in the numbing, cold rain
warmth is a state of mind—
the past still blossoms

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Woman Bathing in Lake Painting by Regina WARRINER

Written for dversepoets.com