On the hill,
the lilacs bloom each spring,
a fleeting purple offering.
Why do I walk to them
with a question
about anger?
Their perfume pulls me closer,
bids me step in, bids me
breathe more deeply,
and I do. For a while,
I forget my seething, forget everything
except the many flowered blooms.
For a while, all that matters
is that I am one who stands beside lilacs,
steeped in the lilac world.
It becomes who I am,
though I know it won’t last.
There, says the lilac.
There is your answer.