Drawn From The Smell of Lilacs
This pitch-black room is darker than that cavedeep under an eastern meadow,
which holds the dull fecal scent of decay
mixed with full nostril odor of old damp earth.
Where 23 years ago I brought my children,their glossy checks, straw-strewn hair,
worn scuffed shoes, and torn play clothes,
their hesitant eyes which grew
round and large when all light left.
My daughters smooth hands, now far away,red and chapped from years of dishwater,
bound by the rings of their days,
their soiled cuticles, dark from
tunneling their own lives.
I am drawn again to the darknessunknown above ground,
the lure of a flowing stream
which sings an old amniotic lullaby
I can almost remember.
Still, even without light,I somersault at noon,
swallow the salt of gone years,
bless the days still left for me,
dance to the rhythm of lilacs.