Magnolia Madness — Bet Briggs

 My magnolia tree is going mad!

what delicious blossoming:

on branches bare a month ago

this blush, first flush of Spring,

on limbs unburdened by their weight

not buds, but birds, burgeoning:

rose-pink breasted, moon-white crested

fledglings and doting pairs,

there’s no mistaking them:

instant families of galahs

noiselessly in celebration

of becoming and of being.

Much more than surprise

their blithe presence

is a kind of offering.

Brave community of innocents

in the shelter of each other

they cluster in their peace.

Nothing startles them or stains

their gentle rush to radiance.

Only vagrant winds soft and rough

ruffle their feathered joy,

enticing whispers of call

and restlessness so tender

flight seems imminent

and my need clear: keep watch

and catch the joy before it flies.

Yet all is hover and hold,

time and birds fold wings

and the only flight is fall:

magnolia moultings floating down

quilting garden bed and lawn;

and soon above on branches stirring,

noiseless as before appear new wings

leaf-bud green and more enduring.

But oh! that pink-white loveliness

before the green, that bloom of birds,

that brief but shared delirium.

The world and I need such madness.