With every leaf a miracle . . .
and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-colour'd blossoms,
and heart-shaped leaves of rich green
A sprig with its flower, I break.
~ Walt Whitman,
When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd
(III, Leaves of Grass)
STEALING LILACS
A guaranteed miracle,
it happens for two weeks each May,
this bounty of riches
where McMansion, trailer,
the humblest driveway
burst with color—pale lavender,
purple, darker plum—
and glorious scent.
This morning a battered station wagon
drew up on my street
and a very fat woman got out
and starting tearing branches
from my neighbor's tall old lilac—
grabbing, snapping stems, heaving
armloads of purple sprays
into her beater.
A tangle of kids' arms and legs
writhed in the car.
I almost opened the screen door
to say something,
but couldn't begrudge her theft,
or the impulse
to steal such beauty.
Just this once,
there is enough for everyone.
— Alice N. Persons
from Never Say Never, Moon Pie Press, 2004
Poetry Garden
