Thursday, May 7, 2015

LILAC SEASON

Curiously—it was always 
there,

in his lonelier moments
and places—

for a split second
passing under- 
neath the heady 
bloom of shrubshade, say

or again 
at low evening—
at the exact instant
when 

on an inhale—the very first chilly
filament of 
wind 

came to chase away 
the erstwhile day's collected 
friendly and sympathetic heat;

that's when—
the feeling 
would grip him

without warning 
or reason—
that 

everything—every 
single 
little thing

he was not currently doing
at the time—
signified an ending,

and every ending
was it's own small death.

But death—he would subsequently 
realize 
invariably

when exhaling 
heavily 
the groggy perfumed air—

was not 
the opposite 
of life,

but rather—just the inverse 
of a messy

and difficult 
birth.

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