From the Fishouse

Late April, lilacs choke froward air
and after dark you ford the metal threshold
into my cottage with a handful,
thick stems clumping in your fist,

hold them like an offering,
Get over this. They smell so
second chance.

Like drawing straws
I think, picking from your pink
hand stolen lavender blossoms.

I arrange them in a jam jar,
let go and watch a few slouch
umbrella the oak table.

These are actions I love:
pinching thorny, purple branches,
boring into their green ends, finding out where

the spirit starts coming forth.