When you lose a Black Matriarch, the ground
s h i f t s
Parallel to the sky that welcomed her ascent,
it cracks open, ragged and sharp-edged,
cutting away at the foundation that protected the roots,
that held the trunk, that held the thin branches
that snap in every direction, away from center, away from home.
Once branches, now twigs;
no longer tethered to nutrients, to water.
The leaves at their tips wither and brown, not to change with the seasons but because
they have decided that the seeds they bear individually are more important
than the source from which they originate.
As the sun sets on one Black Matriarch,
its warmth imprints a path for the next;
Eldest of daughters, caretaker, and memory holder.
She brings the rain to wet the soil that softens the jagged edges and floods the cracks to
mend the foundation.
She brings the winds that rustle the branches mature enough to remain attached,
whistling a call to severed twigs that there is a place for you, still.
At the bed of the magnolia tree.
Protecting the roots.
That hold the trunk.
That hold the branches.
That blossom with spring and fill the air with sweet memories.
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