It becomes you, old soul,
And this one standing below
Your slender branches, with eyes
Fixed upon your petals milky white,
Hears you say, “I told you I would bloom;
I’d burst my winter tomb.”
So there in casts of shadows long,
Dividing sun-kissed lanes,
Dressed in dry beds of fallen leaves,
We begin to sing,
(First her, then me)
Of thanks and praise
To God, the giver of this day;
For new life, new awakenings,
For what’s yet hidden,
For what’s to be,
And the more we sang,
The more I could see
In the light of the old magnolia tree.”
Musings, Moments, Memories, and More 