High up in the Blue Ridge,
when your hair has grayed,
you catch the scent again,
lilac, its certain purple plumes,
 
and there you are in Flint, age twelve,  
with the pixie haircut like Twiggy’s.
You lie on top of the covers
as perfume creeps across your pillow,
even on windless nights,
even with the yellow curtains drawn.
You might climb out your window
onto the first story roof
to touch the top of the bush,
violet on a bright night.
 
Plant a lilac in the Georgia mountains
on the lake side of your cottage    
where it might be cool enough
to thrive. Plant it in your father’s name
next to the goldfinch feeder,
leave un-pruned for profuse flowering.
Bring long branches, blossom-laden
into your kitchen. Keep them
in your mother’s tallest milk glass vase.


From No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin, 2018).
Used here with permission.