Lisa Janice Cohen
LILACS FOR ONE HUNDRED SPRINGS
This is not the time of year
for lilacs -- spare branches
frame an ambivalent sky.
Spring remains wary
of New England and I will have
no flowers to brighten your room.
I leave the tape recorder,
a lifetime of questions packed
away and come to you empty
handed. The century has betrayed us;
we believed in its promise of time,
the unspooling of miracles. Death
ends all stories, even the ones
we tell ourselves when we are afraid.
I do not fear the way your hands
curl, turn the weight and color
of dried leaves. Only the tender
green keeps you from drifting away.
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