I still remember the smell,

of her leaves upon the moist earth,

churned from frozen ground,

by seeds in search of spring.

Is there anything more beautiful,

more idyllic,

more fragrant,

than a magnolia flower in the southern sun?

Her white petals,

set against deep green leaves,

that to the hand,

feel like well-worn leather.

Long a symbol of luck and stability,

magnolias may be creator’s greatest gift,

for they reflect,

a life well-lived.

And certainly,

you have lived a great life.

Where would I be without you?

You have always been my magnolia.

The scent of magnolia flowers,

drifts through the evening air,

like hints of champagne,

upon a warm summer breeze.

They alone,

without warning,

announce the coming of spring,

the dawn of new life.

Always present,

greeting each day with silent grace,

rooted in that crimson southern earth,

like majestic statues of time.

Like you,

magnolias tend to outlive the rest,

making it seem as if they were resistant,

to the grind of time upon life.

But now,

as I sit by your bed,

awaiting your goodbye,

I realize that even magnolias fall back to the earth.

Here you lay,

like the trunk of an old magnolia,

slowly folding back,

into all that ever was.

And though I am sad,

I’m also grateful,

to have been blessed by your presence,

and all the lessons you have left with me.

As you drift back into the fabric,

of creator’s mysterious cloth,

please know,

that I have always loved you and your kind magnolia soul.

Benjamin Waddell

Durango