The Woman In White
I've planted double lilac Madame Lemoine
(that name itself redolent of French perfume,
white lace and elegance down a long ballroom)
twice now, in different gardens, different towns,
and had to leave each place. I've never known
how either tree has made her début, come
of age in beauty, filled her promised bloom.
For all that I can tell, they're both cut down.
Each May, I see where other lilacs stand
in other people's gardens; but for me
the glimmering light, the heady scent that scours
my heart with sadness out of some dead land
drifts from those vanished hopes. Beyond each tree,
always, each May, a spectral lilac flowers.
