Magnolias And Moonlight Poem by Robin Bennett

From the day I escaped my
mother's womb, I was raised
on a diet of magnolias and
moonlight.

Those huge blooms. Like
a great big white artichoke, they
swarm. Hanging from sturdy wood,
yet gravity heavy. I thought my
Grandmother had stolen
their scent. Her hugs were
dripping with southern perfume
grown on trees.

Seems as if these summer days
were running a white hot fever.
Everything felt sticky
and slightly ill.
I could only wait for the sun
to put her fire out
for the night.

Then I'd climb those huge branches by
the light of a rebel moon. A chalky
white bouncing ball in the sky would
power my nights. Those glorious trees
always nurtured a home. Poised in
the landscape each tree would
preen her leaves and stand tall.

Even today when the breeze
blows just right, I can faintly smell
Grandma and magnolias by
moonlight.