“Why don’t you turn at the next corner,”
she said, “and take another road home.
Let’s go past that farm with all the
different colored lilacs.”
Did I mention I was going to take a break from poetry or at least blogging about poetry for the weekend? I needed time to gather the books of poems strewn around the house–on the kitchen table, under the bed, buried in stacks of newspapers–and to think about where I was after seven days of verse.
Four Kinds of Lilacs seems like a good place to pick it up again. I’ve been in Santa Fe for almost twenty years, but I’m always surprised when the purple clusters begin to show themselves in April. In western Kansas where I grew up they lag by several weeks (or at least they used to), making them the perfect May Day flower. As a kid, I filled baskets made of colored construction paper with lilacs and candy, dropped them on neighbors’ porches, rang the bell, and ran.
Friday night I stepped off the sidewalk and into a flowerbed downtown to catch a whiff of a just-opened blossom. It smelled like spring.