Thanks Adam for the title of this poem! I am still holding out for lilacs for Mother's Day, (hint hint children who sometimes read my poetry on FaceBook :)). Happy Mom's day to all you mommas!
The first of May and I still haven’t
a bud vase near my bed,
nor sweetness in the entryway,
no pitchers brimming with
the cream of spring.
like thirteen year old girls
lovely as fillies, raspberries,
puppy love and kittens,
lilacs have a short shelf life,
the leaves limp after a day or two
clusters of petals
too soon like bread crusts.
I have yet to plant my own bushes
and every year come April,
drive with envy toward town,
past old farm houses,
stalwarts against suburbia,
they are flush with fuchsia forethought,
standard issue along the wood shed.
I am not a thief
save the occasional waiting room
magazine and Halloween candy from my kids,
but I have for years now
driven at dusk, in the nick of night
and brazenly at midday
with scissors in my glovebox.
This year I spoke my illicit intentions aloud,
the extroverts in my family
suggest I knock on doors and simply ask,
don’t understand my reticence,
the plea akin to soliciting for money
or trying to convert souls.
The introverts cringe
at the whole business,
alarm me of the possibility of interacting
with another (and hostile) human.
This may be the year
we are not graced by violet,
no lacy lobes yet
as I am too tired come evening
and feel less criminal as the years pass.
I nod to them as I whiz by
and if walking, lean in,
inhale long enough
to last a whole year.