He said “lilacs.” So here goes.
Syringa vulgaris
The flower of "first love," we planted two
of the small lilac trees along the back fence,
a chain link short fence dividing our yard
from Ruby's, our patchy lawn and Snow
on the Mountain excesses from her tended
tulips and daffodils, her compost bin and
serious yard intentions. One of the bushes
thrived and grew well past the top of the fence.
The other withered and rotted like some
message about the quality of our soil.
Our bush doesn't give the light purple
blossoms and heady smell of the legendary
hedges of Dave's Connecticut childhood.
It's upright and somewhat stingy, its panicles
a darker purple with smaller flowers, some
Asian variation long lost to my memory.
The lilac's leaves are heart-shaped, an observation
I have yet to make with my own eyes. To be honest,
there's not a lot of my love lost in that backyard.
The female cardinal has arrived to be wooed.
She's a greeny brown that complements
the bark of the lilac's still bare branches.
She sits now, in the metal fence, waiting
for that promised love to begin --
or, wait, that's not her at all, but a shivering
winter leaf, brown and curled, dead to
this Spring world --
