I remember as a youngster I often stopped my bike for a sniff of the lilacs along the way. Like Cindi, my mother loved Lilacs and I always gave Mom a bouquet of them on Mother’s Day.
My mother loved lilacs.
Blooms of lavender
tumble into one another,
the bleached trellis sags
against the house,
a burden to the modest porch.
Scent sidles into your soul,
sets up camp,
coaxes you to excuse
what lingers on the other side
of the screen door,
its mesh slashed by tears.
Fragrance emanates
in the tiny yard
pebbles pocketed between patches of grass
mashed underneath the Rambler’s tires.
©️Cindi Reiss-2022-Roots, Shoots and Blooms-Inkwell
Cindi Reese is the president of the Phoenix Writer’s Club, which tuns 100 years old in 2026. I always wish I could write poetry, and see the colors of life in a brilliant array of under tones and over tones, and wear plaids with checks and stripes and be the best dressed in the room.
