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--chosen-work--
Lilacs
A portly lady boards our crowded bus
her destination Anston Cemetery
floods our bus with sunlight by her smiles
tissue-wrapped I cannot see her flowers
but the fragrance of wild lilacs fills our deck
the next two miles
As she alights our course is further on
our spirits have been lifted by her joy
that her sorrow not to share
we have none
There is brown on the lilac
its promise is spent
the sweet dreams of springtime
with summer relent
now all the young startlings are leaving their home
and late-nesting goldfinches
Since first you fired
the arrows of your glance
even in fields and woods blue-hazed
in chill of early morning
the fondest memories are of times
we did not dare to chance