Lilac's lament

Lilacs wear dirty splotches that fail to conceal their shame, once proud bearings sag in weariness. Lilacs mere weeks gone sparkled their blue bunches and shared their sweet perfumes, showed off their engaging grace and locks.

Lilacs hoarse and too tired to stand forth and too burdened with age to hope, nor care whether beauty was exchanged for wisdom. Even the robins and the sparrows bring less their arcade abandon. Lilacs withhold reply, relay no joy to the neighboring cherry trees as well as the apple trees; and berry bushes laden with ripening fruits to fill men’s jelly jars, fruit bowls, pie plates; and bear and deer bellies. Lilacs pester for a shower, their crowns ashen, begging palms grubby; but I can do nothing for them except wait with them, prepare to say goodbye, promise to greet them again in May or June.

My spirit weighs; its hem grazes dust and its well ashamed of grace dearth. The pain pierces too deep to watch the Lilacs suffer, so I keep within, turn on the radio, drown out Lilacs’ flat laments.