Aunt Helen’s Lilacs

Mostly, the snow has melted,
and the lilacs have begun to bud,
each swollen nodule, a promise.

These lilacs came from my aunt’s house.
They did not flourish there, but were tough,
ignoring the weather with impunity,

until later generations took small rootlings
and transplanted them far from home
where they caught fire, and grew wild,

happy to be somewhere, anywhere
else,
like a love moved from its acidic bed

to a place of sun and light,
they will grow, and green and best of all,
flower.

About this poem

This poem is a lie that tells the truth. I did have an Aunt Helen, and she had lilacs. They, however, grew quite well behind her house. When she died, my mother took some rootlings and now they grow at the home my mother and my father shared since 1965,  I took a cutting of my mother’s, which is now growing behind my house.

The picture, which I took just this past Saturday is not of THOSE lilacs however. They are of lilacs that were already behind my house, tall and strong. Early each May they bloom and for a couple of weeks my house is redolent with the aroma of them. The cuttings I took are still small, just a year or so into their growth.

But the part about love? I think it’s true. I could be wrong. But I don’t think so.

Tom