As the petals opened truly, sweetly, wide
and the fragrance swept our fears away,
as the song filled the rooms,
and we sighed into our own peaceable blooming,
we knew the flower’s artistry would curl up and brown,
the ground receiving bits and pieces,
the melody fertilizing earth for the next cycle of being.
And though we scatter to the four corners of our differences,
and all the little deaths have been tucked away,
the decrees final, the shunning done,
no resurrection likely in our time,
and though the barriers against what was and what is taunt
and accuse the past blooms of being not blooms, but instead a totality of falsehood,
and though the desire to either/or and to brutally conclude clamors,
the truth refuses obliterative absolutes.
It is not true that a flower was not real
because the flower is now dead,
and because that one flower will not be again.
Love and songs transmute our failings
and carry nourishment from all the booming blossoms
to the heart of being, feeding our lives
in spite of the prevailing death.
There is a both/and excruciating
whose requisite liberation sets the heart free.
The magnolia did bloom.
We did feast on a love impervious to our fated losses
(though we cannot reach ‘cross charred divides).
And in that is purpose no betrayal can destroy,
in that is a feltness stomping out futility’s lies,
in that is unity beyond graves,
and a song of cherishing that which insanity cannot devour.
Though mere formalities obliterated bonds,
the magnolia’s bloom will ultimately be our tale.