In the season of the urge to steal lilacs
to fill with their scent every room
thoughts turn to freedom
and a reach for manhood by a son.
The warming air promises summer
as the flight of young birds echoes future.
When I was young, untested future
flew like a breeze through lilacs
ever forward into summer.
The mystery of life, locked in a room,
gave me no clue that I’d love a son.
My body waited in freedom.
A tentative thing, freedom,
to wait and wonder the future,
to dream of daughters and sons
in a naive mind filled with lilacs,
unknowingly holding the key to a room
where a clock ticks away summer.
Suddenly the heat of summer
quickens air, and freedom
bangs at the door of the room
where a young man imagines future.
Brown and wilted are lilacs
in the fist of a beloved son.
You chose me, my son,
one past year before summer
as I walked on a path of lilacs
unaware of my disappearing freedom.
You picked me as your future
like a flower, my soul became your room.
A fire flickered in the room
and you emerged. A son,
helpless and hungry for a future
that stretched before you like summer.
My bliss in you was a freedom
mixed with the scent of lilacs.
So, my son, your urge to steal freedom
to make room for your future beckons,
and I will plant lilacs in summer.