I can find you only in the blossoms of magnolia

trees that I used for poetic persuasion

to convince myself you have not left me here, not yet.

 

in your garden, there are no magnolias,

none that we have seen, yet there you are, waiting

for me in the blooms that usher spring and summer.

 

all the flowers you planted here have gone,

like you, so fond of annuals that you have left nothing behind

for me to cultivate and convince to bloom,

besides myself, and still, I grow.

 

from the white petals of my journal

where I pour my grief, the lines hold

steadfast and true.

you, mom, were the same. but now

my words are a telegraph wire,

that can send but never receive.

 

here, mom, is where I can find you,

in between the words on this page, my poetry

bridging this distance in just a double-spaced document.

our words, shared in this dance, are a promise

that I never lost you, but rather

have found you, and will,

over and over again,

in the words of our lyric.