First draft. Just written since about 11:40. What I write here are first drafts, generally, unless I note otherwise.
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOMED
Food to Svensson’s Copper Underwing, cousin of the privet,
some paschal sprout, pale, like blood under skin,
you mark my coming and going
with your scent:
asexual, Syringa pubescens, vulgaris, spontanea—
you are as quick as spring to show and sway,
aloof as a tomboy, fickle as water ice,
lovely and complete and duplicitous.
It is when your bloom is gone
that you will come inside my house:
your sapwood, your heartwood turning
into a twisted flute
for a homely song.