Lilacs

I'm feeling inspired.

I realized recently that one of the reasons I got into blogging (besides having a place to post pix for all the out-of-town grandparents) is that I miss writing. Not that I flatter myself what I write is good enough that other people would admire it, let alone want to pay for it, but I miss the good it does me to articulate my thoughts and put them down. I've been a journal writer since third grade, and dabbled in writing poetry for almost as long. As a mom I've found trouble making the time for writing of any kind; blogging is the closest I get most days.

But in the past week I've been exploring other blogs, and encountered some by truly original, artistic women. Today I found a link to Pioneer Woman through Aubrey's blog. I was impressed by the way that Ree used her blog as an expression of creativity and it got me thinking that this is something missing from my life. Not that I don't do creative things from time to time, but often my creativity is expressed in more practical ways, like sewing clothes or explaining to Jimmy why curly bugs don't want to come in our house. So looking at some good photography and good writing, I'm feeling inspired to get back to my roots and do the things that I love to do. In that spirit, I went out in the back yard and snapped some pix of my favorite flowers. And here's a sentimental poem about them that I first penned in 1993, but that I'm resurrecting and revamping on the eve of my recommitment to poetry.

Other People’s Flowers (Redux, May 2007)

I used to borrow flowers from my neighbors’ yards
small grimy fistfuls, brilliant bouquets
of other people’s flowers
until mom marched me, shamefaced but unrepentant
to return them with apologies I didn’t mean.
The house on Donovan Street
where I lived in when I was ten
had lofty lilac trees, covered in May

with fragrant festoons of
snowy white, delicate lavender, rich purple.
Perhaps they held no allure for me then
seeing as they were in my own front yard.
Older now, I am haunted by
the purple ghosts of lilacs past
each time I catch the scent of lilacs
I find myself in the warm twilit yard on Donovan Street
lying on the cool green carpet of lawn
white and purple blossoms swaying softly above.
The house where I live now
has a single small lilac bush out front
it did not bloom this spring.
One night last week after dark I got into my car
drove the mile and a half
to Donovan Street.
They were waiting for me
they knew I couldn’t stay away
and I came for them.
The dusky purple smell enveloped me
and I did not resist.
Unrepentant I drove home
with a trunkful
of other people’s flowers.