six-thirty,
the sky splits—
pale yellow
where the sun falls,
blue
above my head.
The greenest park
in the city,
tall pines
that never lose their needles,
a sycamore
that keeps its bark.
And this lilac,
alone among so much
that stays,
leafless,
full of seed pods—
yellow-brown,
clustered at the crown
where I cannot reach them.
My grandmother's lilac
was the center of her patio.
After she died,
someone said it brought bad luck.
They cut it down.
I don't remember when I stopped
seeing lilacs.
Until recently—
I picked a seed from the ground,
carried it in my pocket
like I did as a boy.
Now I stand
beneath this tree
without leaves,
in the greenest park,
looking up
at what I cannot touch.
The seed pod still in my pocket—
small,
dry,
impossible to lose.
