But even so and drunkenly,
one eye closed to type,
I’ll mourn those lilacs, tonight –
I am not usually drunk
on a Thursday but
I have just been crying with the neighbor
whose friend of her heart is dying and whose elderly mom is not
only dying but still believes, yes! even now,
Steve Perry of Journey fame is her long-distance lover
desperate to be united with her
while parting her from her money.
Hence, drinks.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh right, lilacs.
I heard the reluctant whine of the chainsaw
and when I looked out,
the lilacs lay prone
on the other side of my fence, lain down
in orderly rows as though they should not make
any more trouble or fuss.
They were not mine, but is anything?
Now there is emptiness-
the space against the sky where their branches
splayed,
and all the flaking paint the bowers hid.
They were not mine, and yet,
and yet
I mourn their passing,
the tight bright green buds in April,
the profuse blooms each May,
the squirrels who raced along the fenceline
and into their springy branches,
dropping bits of darkness,
cool shadows
in their wake.
