Another morning, waking up why. Moon was full all night, pink and gold. I stood by the gate to catch the scent of lilac, drifting from dark. What helps us live so rarely seems enough. I stand by the gate each night in the lilac season.
This poem is new, raw. Composed this morning, and therefore almost certainly not in any final form. But given some widespread, shared emotions right now—excitement about last night’s moon; relief (here on the Northern half) to see and scent the spring; unfolding trauma-responses to the pandemic—I want to share it anyway.
This won’t be part of Tell the Turning (Kickstarting Saturday, May 1!), but there is a resonance. In the Lilac Season feels like the moon to the sun, west to the east, or maybe the fraternal twin of this one, which is already typeset into the forthcoming volume:
Regardless so much in life confers pleasure. In this moment, nothing more than November's standard river-mist distilled from purple dawn. From six months' rain-soaked distance, the scent of lilac.