When Lilacs Last in my Backyard Bloomed

When Lilacs Last in my Backyard Bloomed
Christopher Bogart

When lilacs last in my backyard bloomed,
I wasn’t there to see them.

When I moved in, almost fifteen years ago,
I saw only the short stump of a cut down bush,

sitting in the soil by the chain link fence,
at the farthest edge of the property.

I had guessed the previous owner just didn’t like lilacs,
but I did, so I decided to give the little stump a chance.

Each spring, I went out to the back fence
to see what had become of the little lilac stump.

Each spring, new growth from that stump rose up and away
from the fence to face the warmth of each new spring sun.

Its leaves sprouting from its lengthening stems,
bright new, green and full of hope. But bud less.

For the first few years, new hope was
born again and again in those bright green shoots.

I tore down the chain link that kept it captive
and built a new wood fence, yet green was all it gave.

By year ten, I had all but given up on my lavender dreams,
glancing, only occasionally, out the back door to the border beyond.

In time, I accepted, as the stump seemed to accept, that
its role would be foliage, fill for the space at the back fence.

I glanced out only occasionally, afraid to hope,
afraid to see, afraid to dream deep purple dreams.

Then, one day, in the spring of the fifteenth year,
I heard a faint call from the stump at the back wood fence.

I approached to a view of its bright green leaves, new growth, new life,
and crowned with the lavender buds of my hopes and my dreams.