It was nice to have the lilacs today

The blossoms tinting the sunlight mauve
The lavender hue overlaid by silver

Something always overlays the color

The air is heavy, laden with fragrance

A good reason to move slowly

Struggling to pass through that atmosphere
To reach escape velocity from here

And now

It was nice to have the lilacs now

Later it will be terrible

That smell will weigh so heavily
Tarnished with memory

Lilacs will never again be light
Or sweet

But it’s nice to have the lilacs now

[I just felt like writing, I have no cause to hate lilacs]


The Gate

The gate remains.
The fence is gone, gone long ago, but the gate remains.

I prefer it closed, which I know is absurd.
But there is solidity in a closed gate, there is definition.

From the street, the open gate invites travelers, passersby, to enter. To come up the driveway, past the house, into the sanctuary of the back.

I dislike travelers moving into my space, my haven.

So I close the gate, as I close drawers and push chairs under tables and straighten pictures. Because that is the truth of them, that is their proper resting place.

As is mine. Resting in place. Solaced in the angle of repose.


The ears are focused. The eyes are in direct contact. The lip raises, the lower jaw extends and the teeth find their purchase on the lower edge of the gate. With one delicate and practiced gesture, the gate resounds. Clang!

A hopeful moment, a sigh. I have failed to act. Again.

So he turns to the feeder bolted to the fence, which makes a nice resonant thudding sound. Once. Twice. Sigh.

Then to the pawing. A mighty right hoof, a muscular shoulder. Due to the recurrent excavation, we have placed a paving stone under the bucket, so he can make a nice scraping sound. It conveys disdain, with a touch of contempt.

It’s well worth it to delay feeding the horse just for the symphonic response.