THE LILACS OF ISHPEMING

     © Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.

Every year the second week of June

welcomes an explosion of lavenders,

a riotous splendor of survival.

Coexistent with forget-me-nots and apple blossoms,

old lilacs open in old yards near rundown houses

Cleveland, New York Locations, mines now closed;

in unkempt yards near derelict houses.

Syringa vulgaris, sturdy and stubborn,

staying alive rendering beauty.

Banks. Clouds. Mounds. Masses.

Bundles. Hills. Dunes, clumps, of lilacs.

The dapple of blooms overruns

dilapidated shacks, leans over aged fences.

Amethyst cones. Plum shafts.

Drive into the abandoned neighborhoods

of Negaunee on Merry Street

where sinking ground

made the homeowners flee.

Steps with no porches

lead to thickets of bushes grown to trees.

Yellow swallowtail butterflies dart.

Walk the path along Lake Superior.

Tiers and verges. Borders shore the shore.

Appropriately, French lilacs thrive

in the rocky Father Marquette Park.

And the air! Sniff the essence,

distill summer’s advent.

Put it to your nose. Remember.

Girls used to plan their weddings

for this week. They filled the altars with

these blooming canes and branches

their heart-shaped leaves green as ivy,

a verdant quintessence,

blessed hope for love undying,

violet royal persistence.

Hurry! take the clippers.

Find pretty vases.

Fill your house with

bruises of blossom glow.

Drive the old, tired mining towns

with your windows down.

Breathe.