In Grandma’s yard, I always looked first
for twin magnolias expanding in their plot of dirt
and stretching with reverence toward Southern skies.

Their knobby branches bore fruit of flower,
suggesting slightest scent of assurance, declaration
of their belonging to this place and time, to these people
who would strip them, deny grand splendor and
glorious revival, hard-earned in this suburban soil
so removed from context of their creation and
from the cultivation of hardy spirit
coursing through their aging limbs.

Cancer claimed Grandma, my strong and
shining hope, when I was only just beginning
to entwine my arms with hers, to find some way
to grow again in spite of unfavorable ground
and too much rain. Slowly, I straightened,
my grief assuaged in part by two magnolias,
standing sure together, blossoms unfolding
from between tough leaves, darkest green.

Accustomed to their quiet prominence, how
was I to know that one day a neighbor would come
with kindness and chain saws to cut the magnolias down.