Hostas Poem by Frank Avon

for Ocia, b.08.07.1895

My mother called them
August lilies,
for they were supposed to bloom
each August,
but hers never did.
She nurtured them
as she did us children,
moving them from one sunny spot
to another,
then to partial shade,
under one of the maples,
or somewhere else,
but they never bloomed.
The spirea did,
the mock orange, crepe myrtle,
the bridal wreath
by our front door,
but not her August lilies.

Her birthday was August 7.
We didn't celebrate birthdays back then,
but every year she would begin
watching for her lilies to bloom.
The climbing roses bloomed:
Dr. Van Fleet near the smokehouse,
bourbon pinks all over the cellar door.
The Southern magnolia bloomed -
profusely.
Its blossoms, large and creamy white,
had a sweet, sweet fragrance.
that overpowered one's nostrils.
She was a grand Southern lady,
that magnolia
(still is, over sixty years later) ,
sturdy, quiet, elegant, though
overshadowed always
by the giant oak nearby
(which long since has been gone,
struck by a fierce storm) .
The oak dropped its acorns noisily
every September
and lost its dull brown leaves
soon afterward,

but Lady Magnolia's waxen leaves
were green and crisp
all year long.
We used them to decorate our mantelpiece
every Christmas.
Sometimes we silvered them, or
sprinkled them with foil icicles
or bright, shining silver balls,
candlesticks of burgundy red
footed in their crispness.

Oh, yes, the magnolia was sturdy,
but her blossoms, creamy
and fragrant, large and silken,
were ever so fragile.
One slight touch of a fingertip,
and they would immediately
turn brown.
Just a breath, too close,
too intimate,
would soil their purity.

I always thought of my mother
as the magnolia;
my father was the masterful oak,
dropping its hard, noisy acorns,
all over its corner of the yard.
When we started to school,
the day after Labor Day,
we could hear them crunching
under our feet,
as they did until the snows
of December.
You couldn't miss them.
They made their will known,
they demanded obeisance.

But all summer long
the magnolia blossoms,
soft and shy,
were hidden among
those waxen, green leaves.
One had to climb carefully
among the limbs of the tree
to find them, to retrieve them.
One had to hold each blossom
ever so gently
and bear them, as if they
were the queen's tiara,
on a velvet cushion.
Not many people were patient
enough, or so fastidious.
We cut Dr. Van Fleet roses
for our mother;
we brought her baskets
of crepe myrtle.
We gathered honeysuckle vines
from the lane to our house.
She loved them all.

I was the only one
careful (or foolish) enough
to bring her
the heavily scented,
delicately sensitive,
magnolia blossom.
I think my mother was grateful.

But, still,
and to no avail,
she waited for her
birth flowers,
her August lilies.

* * * * *

This morning our hostas bloomed
as they do every August
just in time for my wife's birthday,
August 28.
The blooms are small and white,
held aloft
on stiff stalks,
much higher than their lush green leaves,
like a shaft of bells
suspended in space
outside my study window.
They are noticeable,
you can't miss them,
though not ostentatious,
plain and simple,
but many and classic.
You would never think of cutting them.
They know their rights.
They invite you to look their way
and pass on by.

We have no giant, stately oak
nor groves of maples,
no box elder or tall, skinny locusts.
I've started three sycamores,
two tulip trees, a willow,
one struggling maple,
some birches, half a dozen red buds.
One little cherry survived
out of five.

We have a rose bed,
several climbers
(a New Dawn, descendant
of Dr. Van Fleet,
Joseph's Coat, the Fourth of July) .
We have a wildflower bed
and elephant ears,
ivy and Virginia creeper,
coneflowers and butterfly bushes,
hydrangeas and coleus,
impatiens, marigolds, and petunias,
sunflowers and morning glories,
four o'clocks and lilies of the season.
Clematis vines have spread
all along our patio wall
and the heat spout
of the clothes dryer inside.

But August belongs
to the August lilies.
Whenever they bloom
- as they always do -
swaying slightly in the breeze,
presiding over the beds
and shrubs around them,
a spear of silent bells,
whenever they bloom,
I know my mother lives
and every year
rejoices.