Magnolia Petals by Iulia Hermenean

Poetry

Magnolia Petals



On a Tuesday, two days before my birthday
the streets sang a quiet suburban hum,
magnolia petals bending with the wind.

I think, I gelled my hair back like
I knew the lake to be–
its surface pulled into a perfect sheen like
the stillness of everything–not moving.

Soft against my cheek, the wind whispered,
nothing is ever really still.
Not the petals falling in slow surrender,
not any reflection I catch of myself this summer,
not nothing.

In the glassy surface of the water, I wonder
if I’ll ever know the kind of peace
that matches this quiet—
the kind of peace I lost, long before I could call it mine.

How far could I drift before the currents would forget me?
How far could I sail away and still
feel the pull of home– the pull of a voice
calling me back to where it all began.

I found four wild rabbits in the garden,
their bodies so poised they looked like a still life,
and for a moment, nothing moved—
not even the wind. I think I held my breath
longer than I ever have.

I wonder, how far apart we have to be
before we know the kind of mother we want to become?
Or was it already written,
in the way we hold ourselves
against the moments we can’t control–
the moments when we wonder if we are enough?