Magnolia

 
Abney Park draws me each year
in early May after a rain
has passed and the sky
is suited in flannel gray.
It's where we first met
if you remember.

The air was cool for spring
and fog hovered along
the brick walk near the edge
of the woods where a thick
of Magnolias stand.

Their blossoms, so creamy white,
and the wet limbs,
black as a new moon night,
glowed like nested candle flames
as they loaded the air
with the scent of lemon.

I saw you there, our eyes
met momentarily;
you smiled. The wide waxen
leaves seemed so much
greener after that.
 
John H. Freeman
 

Copyright © 2001