When I Pass Magnolia Trees, I Remember

A poem by Mureall Hebert

When I pass magnolia trees, I remember

the time you rescued a bumblebee

from drowning,                      

let it dry on your hand,                                  

slivers of skeleton wings

framing suncatchers,             

venation wind chimes.                                                                       

And God I loved you as you squatted there,             

a universe in your grasp.

A drop of water, a smear of chitin,    

a Big Bang in the fold of your palm.

Inside, lived the idea of the bee,

of swimming, of the dip of your hand.                      

The anatomy of bees

is from the time of dinosaurs

and predatory wasps.

We evolve to attract,  

to proliferate.

The solitary bee goes unnoticed                    

but full of nectar.

Bee-warrior queen,

you are the magnolia blossom,

the white on green that unearths

new beginnings.

Your outline on concrete

flows eternal and fluid.

Hear Mureall read her poem:

When I Pass Magnolia TreesMureall Hebert

1:07

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Mureall Hebert lives near Seattle, WA. Her work can be found in Tab Journal, Arc Poetry Magazine, Hobart, and elsewhere. She’s a reader for Broad Ripple Review and has been nominated for Best New Poets and a Pushcart Prize. She holds an MFA from NILA.

Image:

Bee in flower by Khristina Sergeychik