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She is aghast
as I explain that once each year,
just about now,
I drive slowly through the neighborhoods casing likely targets,
and when I find one,
I park just across the street and walk over
with a great inner calm.
I use the very sharpest snips possible,
and cut one, two, but never more than three
clumps of perfectly bloomed purple lilacs,
then move on until the lead-heavy scent
inside the car makes me almost dopey.
I bring them home and arrange them in vases,
place them where they will find afternoon light.
But, she cries, that is just wrong!
Lilacs belong to all the people.
Yes, I say. Yes.
And I am one of the people.
From The Lilac Thief (Sargent Press, 2009).
Used with the author’s permission.
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Young Dawkins ilives and writes in Tasmania, where he lives with his wife and son. His second collection, Slow Walk Home (Red Squirrel Press), was long-listed for the Tim Thorne Poetry Prize in 2024. Young has performed his work at major festivals and on stages in Edinburgh, London, Paris, New York, Hobart, and Auckland, New Zealand.
 
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Joe Sottile:
Lovely poem! Each summer Rochester NY has the Lilac Festival which thousands of people attend.
Posted 05/13/2011 02:09 PM
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transitions:
Please pass the snips...love the poem! Judy
Posted 05/13/2011 11:39 AM
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Julianne Carlile:
They must have rules about cutting flowers over there. Funny poem.
Posted 05/13/2011 05:03 AM
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