What Things Grow Under A Magnolia Tree?

What Things Grow Under A Magnolia Tree?

—To Cindy Ligon.

Look closely, and I know you'll see,
how things seldom grow under a Magnolia Tree.
Other than a cluster of Magnolia leaves.
The accumulation of pods going to seed.
The drawing of the deepest shades,
accompanied by the recreational breeze.

And more and more pods of glowing seeds
that grow in these threatening types of soil.
Also, I know you've seen these pods of glowing seeds
burnt to a crisp or brought to a silent broil.
Look closely, and I'll show you these
pods of glowing seeds lying crisply upon the soil...

A soil that, after a rainy May,
may turn to a hardened clay.
As if the county-seat were founded on these
patches of hardened clay...

Nothing grows there, they say.

——

But,

every now and again, you may
see a boy grow into a young man,
shielded by these thickly leaves—
amid these pods of glowing seeds—

Saying to you, “No worries. The
accumulation of leaves is not only
thickly, but, well, cushioney.”

Shocked to see anything
growing amid these pods of glowing seeds,
beneath the Magnolia Tree, I sought to see anything
the boy had interest in showing me.

As he stood, I could see
(as I've seen it often in memories),
in his hand, he
carried only a pen, a paperback King,
and his own binder of saturated loose-leaf.

Even at such a distance, I
saw the torment that rages someplace behind his eyes.
Never-the-less,
he is ageless in the way that he smiles.

——

He knows fear...
Indeed...
But, none of that grows either
under the Magnolia Tree.
(isn't it a treat to see?)

He has great ideas in his mind.
He is told to leave them behind—
in the pursuit of other things.
And,
there are winters, when his mind splinters,
there under the dormant Magnolia Tree;
when his bones feel the chill,
and it doesn’t seem like such a bad theme:
Pursuing other things.

“But, aren't other things,”
he will say, on his better days,
“for other people—and not me?”

I would say the boy
took my heart with his words;
but we have the same heart,
this boy and I.

——

The boy soon asked me politely to leave.
For in his home (some forty or so feet),
he heard that voices were raised.
And, like a young brave,

he stood to his feet,
his binder of loose-leaf,
now closed. I now know
what he feels in his bones...
The Magnolia Tree—
far older than he or me—has be
come his mind's home...

A place where imagination roams;
even in houses—
even in homes—
where love and life have all but flown.
Vanished into thin air, to hide
in the mind and the eyes
of just such a child.

——

If you will look closely, I know you'll agree
how things seldom grow under a Magnolia Tree—
(it is a rarity, indeed, to see something
grow under conditions like these)
other than a cluster of these dried Magnolia leaves.
The accumulation of pods going to seed.
The drawing of the deepest shades,
accompanied by the recreational breeze.

And more and more pods of glowing seeds,
that grow in these threatening types of soil.
(i have seen imagination grow—
seen it become a home—
a house—a whole—
always home—
never alone—
but
not crowded like
the home that houses his fears,
(those threatening types of soil)
where nothing but torment seems to grow—
at least for a child, living in his own mind).

——

I know you've seen these pods of glowing seeds
(they crumble in my hands)
burnt to a crisp or brought to a silent broil.
Look closely and I'll show you these
pods of glowing seeds lying crisply upon the soil...

A soil that, after a rainy May,
may turn to a hardened clay.
As if the county-seat were founded on these
patches of hardened clay...

Nothing grows there, they say.