When I think
of all that had to happen
to constellate this moment
in which I stand
beside the road
with my whole face
buried in the lilac bush
I almost weep
overcome by the pure
purple sweet of it all,
how perfect, how
unlikely it all is—
from the star exploding
to the first simple creature
pulling itself out of the sea
to the seed being planted
before my parents met
to the woman who is me
finding her way
to the shoulder of highway 145
where the sun has just set
and the bushes are heavy
with good perfume
and the air is still warm
and the stars are just
beginning to show
their old light.