
When the Magnolias Bloom.
By: Lora Bayh
I was just a little girl, watching my mother, memorizing her every move.
Spring’s first hints excited her so, but none more than the Magnolias bloom.
Too young to understand the fuss, the love, the anticipation,
But enough to gasp at daddy , “Daddy, “Magmolyas” will be here soon!!!”
She’d take a moment daily, to check upon it’s progress
Gauging with elation the beautiful perfection of it’s immergence.
My mother was never more alive than… when the Magnolias bloomed.
There was something more to it all, just beneath the surface.
I can recall her standing by it’s side,
dark red bark, soft pink petals…her own beauty magnified
by the mystery of this scene.
I could have sworn a precious child, in mother’s hazel eyes
was peering back at me…as she explained their flowers die
then come alive as the grandest in God’s scheme.
The Magnolia tree in our front yard stood so many years in a place of reverence
Through those years I saw it’s beauty but never quite realized it’s greater purpose,
And why mother was never more alive than… when the Magnolias bloomed.
A spring some twenty five years later, from that earliest memory, marked the pinnacle of tragedy
Of many befalling our family.
She’d faced so much with courage, and stood her ground like steel, but when the tree was damaged
She grieved as much as heart could feel.
Still, I couldn’t see it, I just couldn’t comprehend, how a little tree had come to be
My mother’s dearest friend.
Or the sadness in her pondering, for the spring that was to come,
Or the ache her heart was feeling if it’s little blooms be done.
As spring approached she watched it close, even more closely than before,
And I noticed she stood lingering much longer at the door.
What would be to come… if our tree was done…when the Magnolias bloomed?
It took some extra time, but life did find a way, mother’s excitement couldn’t be contained
When a single bloom appeared one warm spring day.
Then another, and another, though it could just produce a few,
It might as well have been thirty feet tall, for it took up all her view.
She, though, seemed so different, like part of her was lost,
As if the tree took something with it, and she did pay the cost.
She seemed older, much more fragile, like the petals she loved so dear
And seemed to listen more to spring than what my ear could hear.
And her gentle beauty came more alive this time… when the Magnolias bloomed.
By August of that summer, mother’s time with us ended. Unexpectedly, she went on to her rest.
As I, in my own grief, sifted sweetly through her secrets, I found the answer to the mystery she had left.
A paper folded neatly, tucked in a yellowed journal, written by my mother’s younger hand…
Told with such emotion, of a daughter’s devotion, to her daddy who’d helped her to understand.
She had written him a love song, when he had passed away,
Vowing how she’d not forget the promises he’d made…
Of how life begins again, how she’d always remember him…when the Magnolias bloomed.
My minds eye recalled those many years, and all my wondering,
at the hope she grasped so fervently at the dawn of each new spring.
Tears were streaming down my face and my throat too choked to breath,
heart beating so inside my chest that I started to feel weak.
For years I’d been a witness to a miracle of love, enduring far beyond the bounds of earth and sky above.
She kept it to herself, yet shared it all the same, she honored all he’d shown her and turned, into joy, all her pain.
And now it’s been twelve years, and now it’s spring again,
and now my son stands with me as we take the beauty in.
As the blooms start to engage us, and their appearance weakens strife,
as my mother comes to me again, as I thank my God for eternal life…
Now my own son’s watching me, memorizing every move,
and I’m feeling so alive and very thankful too,
and I believe he thinks I’m beautiful…when the Magnolias bloom.
When the Magnolias Bloom.
By: Lora Bayh
I was just a little girl, watching my mother, memorizing her every move.
Spring’s first hints excited her so, but none more than the Magnolias bloom.
Too young to understand the fuss, the love, the anticipation,
But enough to gasp at daddy , “Daddy, “Magmolyas” will be here soon!!!”
She’d take a moment daily, to check upon it’s progress
Gauging with elation the beautiful perfection of it’s immergence.
My mother was never more alive than… when the Magnolias bloomed.
There was something more to it all, just beneath the surface.
I can recall her standing by it’s side,
dark red bark, soft pink petals…her own beauty magnified
by the mystery of this scene.
I could have sworn a precious child, in mother’s hazel eyes
was peering back at me…as she explained their flowers die
then come alive as the grandest in God’s scheme.
The Magnolia tree in our front yard stood so many years in a place of reverence
Through those years I saw it’s beauty but never quite realized it’s greater purpose,
And why mother was never more alive than… when the Magnolias bloomed.
A spring some twenty five years later, from that earliest memory, marked the pinnacle of tragedy
Of many befalling our family.
She’d faced so much with courage, and stood her ground like steel, but when the tree was damaged
She grieved as much as heart could feel.
Still, I couldn’t see it, I just couldn’t comprehend, how a little tree had come to be
My mother’s dearest friend.
Or the sadness in her pondering, for the spring that was to come,
Or the ache her heart was feeling if it’s little blooms be done.
As spring approached she watched it close, even more closely than before,
And I noticed she stood lingering much longer at the door.
What would be to come… if our tree was done…when the Magnolias bloomed?
It took some extra time, but life did find a way, mother’s excitement couldn’t be contained
When a single bloom appeared one warm spring day.
Then another, and another, though it could just produce a few,
It might as well have been thirty feet tall, for it took up all her view.
She, though, seemed so different, like part of her was lost,
As if the tree took something with it, and she did pay the cost.
She seemed older, much more fragile, like the petals she loved so dear
And seemed to listen more to spring than what my ear could hear.
And her gentle beauty came more alive this time… when the Magnolias bloomed.
By August of that summer, mother’s time with us ended. Unexpectedly, she went on to her rest.
As I, in my own grief, sifted sweetly through her secrets, I found the answer to the mystery she had left.
A paper folded neatly, tucked in a yellowed journal, written by my mother’s younger hand…
Told with such emotion, of a daughter’s devotion, to her daddy who’d helped her to understand.
She had written him a love song, when he had passed away,
Vowing how she’d not forget the promises he’d made…
Of how life begins again, how she’d always remember him…when the Magnolias bloomed.
My minds eye recalled those many years, and all my wondering,
at the hope she grasped so fervently at the dawn of each new spring.
Tears were streaming down my face and my throat too choked to breath,
heart beating so inside my chest that I started to feel weak.
For years I’d been a witness to a miracle of love, enduring far beyond the bounds of earth and sky above.
She kept it to herself, yet shared it all the same, she honored all he’d shown her and turned, into joy, all her pain.
And now it’s been twelve years, and now it’s spring again,
and now my son stands with me as we take the beauty in.
As the blooms start to engage us, and their appearance weakens strife,
as my mother comes to me again, as I thank my God for eternal life…
Now my own son’s watching me, memorizing every move,
and I’m feeling so alive and very thankful too,
and I believe he thinks I’m beautiful…when the Magnolias bloom.
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