Halls of the Dark Muse

Where the Magnolias Grow

I remember the grove
just like yesterday
on a fresh spring day
when the grass was green
and the skin blue.

But there was such
a sweet breeze to touch
the air, and it carried
the natural perfume.

I would run there
with my feet bare
and without a single care
for all the world.

Daring in between sunbeams
and shade, I was invincible
in those precious rare moments
where the earth moved under me.

I remember the magnolia trees
with there virgin white blooms
so big and ripe, somehow
they seemed so other worldly
for all their presumed innocence.

So soft to the touch
each opening and waiting for the pluck
so much like the plush milky white
of freshly bloomed breasts
making the change from adolescents
to womanhood.

I would lie upon a bed of
their ivory, soft petals
each kissing and caressing
stimulating, as a gentle
lover.

But the magnolias
are there no more
sometimes I still imagine
I cast a whiff of their fragrance
hear them calling to me
from some far away place

Yet their sensual innocence
shall be lost to me
and spring days begin to
fade into endless yesterdays.