Broad leaves have sprouted from sticks of Winter, their wick a vibrant green. But I knew further beauty lay buried deep within.
“Michael, come on it’s time to go!” Called mother from the car. We were to leave and come back soon when Lilacs were in full bloom.
But I knew the grip of summer time would burn those lilacs clean, so standing there, upon a small hillock I waited for the Spring.
For Lilacs are the sweetest bud, beyond roses, lilies or cornflower. For from their mouths sweet music rings and turns the wind to wine so fair.
Mother called again, “Come on kid! We’re already late, the storm’s almost here.”
And so with reluctance, I turned my back on a green hedge so bare. And knew within my deepest parts, I’d miss those Lilacs bloom.