There was a hardy row of bushes
behind my boyhood home,
annually filled with scented lilacs,
whose colors varied from year to year.
Likely something to do with the pH
or the changeable Midwest weather.
I mostly liked the light purple ones,
would cut a few for a tall glass, placed
on the yellow formica kitchen table,
so when my blue-veined, fragile mother
came home from being on her feet
at our IGA grocery store,
she might smile at the gesture.
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