Lilacs

After the rain, the lilacs have turned rusty, but the scent lingers, if only in my memory. The lilacs in my childhood yard were trees with big blooms, different from today's lilac hedges.

The scent overtakes me, even if I don’t stop
to bury my face deep in the blooms,
to pick a tiny blossom and suck the nectar.

My mother filled her arms and vases 
with lilacs lavender, purple and white. 
Her garden’s glory, flowers without care.

The lilacs came with the house. 
They grew like willful children,
treasured and out of control. 

When snow bowed branches deep, 
she fretted and demanded that my
father release them from the burden.

When he amputated their heavy limbs,
she complained that he had killed them.

They thrived after the children moved away,
the parents died, the house sold. 
Gnarled, old, fragrant.