The lilacs are blooming
sweet perfume so thick in the air
you can almost touch it.
Bunches of pale purple pink white
Thumb-sized bees bumbling over
slick green leaves and twisting branches.
My little lilac did not survive the winter.
Two years planted
Two years growing
One month too long in deep snow
One week too long in deep cold
One day too long without . . . something
I saw buds try to sprout, valiantly pushing
tips reaching out
The branches reach emptily to the giving sky
Withered twigs holding still
Nature’s artistic impression of cracks in stone
Lightning reversed in its bolt and encased
like Medusa’s victims of old.
All else is blooming and green and fragrant
My lilac tree shies away
lost in the background
grey and colourless
no new shoots
but weeds all around
waiting for new purpose —
its shape to be adapted in form.
Shall I rebirth it as a tiny house
and furnishings for my garden fae?
Weave the narrow branches
into a picture frame?
Soak and twist its fibres
binding into place
what once was living wood into a case
for holding precious memories —
for the giving of gifts —
for the nurturing of seeds?
If everything has a purpose
my lilac tree’s journey has not finished
at the end of my backyard.