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.

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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.