Lilacs and Rose Petals

He was a stickler these days for the plowing,

for removing the snow from out of the drive

and the yard, directing young Jeffrey and his diesel

Chevy, a powerful V-8, turbo-charged pickup

with its yellow Fisher Xtreme, just another

job on his long lists of winter clients checked off,

pointing and guiding him away from the buildings

to keep the walkways clear of snow and ice,

and the rose garden, too, though no roses

have grown there for years, since her green thumbs

gave up weeding and spraying and snipping back

the dead stalks and leaves and old buds, ceased their labor,

her hands grown too old and arthritic to pull and prune,

and away from the lilac bushes still blooming

in springs’ revival since that first year, their fragrance

delicate in the spring air when he flings open the windows

and doors to drive out the season’s passing,

the staleness of a house too big and empty,

all gone but himself and the dried rose petals,

brittle to his touch, touched often, all he has left,

that and the sunshine streaming through, new birth

carried on the wind, warm and fresh, and the scent

of lilacs wafting into his memory, remembering her.