Clay, loess, soil, mica—
it’s all dirt when a shoe
drops deposits in your house
or the dog escapes you
at the door and races over
carpet and rug, then returns
to the outdoors as if to say
what’s out should be in
and what’s in should be out.
You sink, the bellows
of your chest fully deflate,
your ribs the naked keel of a boat.

You breathe in, and there it is--
lilac, scent having crept around
the corner and surprised you,
lilac, like a childhood
friend you’d forgotten
suddenly standing at the door,
lilac--you take a full draft,
intoxicate quickly, skip
to pick a single sprig,

then another, another,
placing one in each room
in glass, vase, or vial,

giddy to know in the middle
of the night you will find yourself
nose over lilac.


© by Jeff Burt.
Used with the author's permission.