Lilacs

My desire has changed its name
to the scent of lilacs.
How can I call it back?

The night wears a purple cape
and stores the sun inside a lace-up shoe.
In the morning, I dangle it from my fingers, still dreaming.

Woman of the green lawns,
you with words composed from lilac wood,
make your body a boundary for birds to mark their way by.

The night is a grandmother I never knew.
She drapes the sun in a tent of dough, with practiced fingers,
calling to me in the morning, when she is gone.

Woman of the curious starling,
you'll find my house easily enough.
There is music from a violin, then none. Then again. Then both.

My desire has changed its name
to the scent of lilacs.
In the morning, I dangle it from my fingers, still dreaming.
_______

For day 8.

Terra Firma

I stopped the car,
got out of the car,
and started walking, barefoot, with my shoes in my hand.

It was early evening, in summer,
with a little breeze,
and the scent of lilacs.

The road felt warm and rough and solid beneath my feet,
but not far below it was just dirt and the roots of trees.
Above my head,
the branches of trees.

I thought, what if I were a woman going somewhere,
with my shoes in my hand, down this road?
What if I were a woman walking away,
putting space between myself and something else?

Over my head were the branches of trees.
In one of the trees was a red-winged blackbird and his mate, watching.
I stopped to look up at them; I turned in a circle,
beneath the leaves, and the birds nesting there.

What if I were a red-winged blackbird, or lilacs in a field?
Here I am, walking, but I don't know where.
Above my head, sky, beneath my feet, roots.
I didn't bring any shoes.
There never was a car.
_______