Each day on my way
to work, I pass
the Magnolia tree.
In springtime I marvel
at its fleeting beauty, weeping
when wind whips
the blossoms away; their
shadow dancing
on the debris-covered
path of my
mourning walk.
He was eight when he drowned
in a pond behind
a red-roofed barn,
snorkel caught in a web of
underwater weeds.
The lone Magnolia tree
sheds purple and white
goblet tears
for the year death’s cold frost
came too soon.
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