They Cut Down the Lilacs

that used to hang

over the board fence we shared. “Help yourself,”
she said, smiling, brown and wizened,
“there’s more than one person can use anyway.”

I filled my house with fragrance that spring,
heavy bunches of purple, white, pink.
In fall, I helped her prune them.
She couldn’t reach the top branches
being barely shoulder-height on me.

We sat on her steps and drank coffee.
She was married fifty years, worked cleaning hotels
to send their kids to college. Grandchildren;
she showed me photos from other states.

She died that winter. They sold the house.
They cut down all the lilacs.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside