lilacs in the vanpool

the slap and ping of water
sloshing in a cobalt-blue vase:
I fear it intrudes
same with the boisterous
flamboyant naughty perfume
rising in clouds from
extravagant masses of delicate color

nature is usually a vista
distant beyond the windows:
a mountain, the fog-shrouded
mystery of the river delta,
trees losing their leaves then
filling again with green
when winter passes

slogging slow through traffic,
sealed against the world
with lightly-tinted windows
if only the scent of lilac
would burst open the van
the water pour out
and keep pouring
tear open the concrete
link highway back to river,
swamp, forest
drive people from their cars
intoxicated with scent
distracted from that sad silent trek
by a frenzy of spring

the smooth glass is cool
under my steadying hand
gripping the vase’s neck lightly
morning streams through
casting blue shadows on this paper,
the pen, the hand that holds it
the scent of lilacs fills my head
until I can’t smell it anymore
except as an idea, the fragrance
of pale pink and pale purple

call it an experiment, including poetry (and maybe fiction, later) in this blog.