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.