Last year, out of town, I missed
the hanging lavender lanterns
morphing the driveway trellis
from a mess of bare sticks
weaving over under, under over
into the annual leafy bower.

Wisteria envy has seized me
like another seasonal allergy,
so I want to soak up the blossoms
popping out this week in earnest,
fleeting bits of loveliness—within a
couple of weeks, masses of eager
leaves will fill in as warp and weft.

Because I trimmed last season’s
woody bits late this year, I
inadvertently doomed the fragrant
crop to come, and sure enough,
less abundance sends me into
the world seeking that particular
scent, hoping to find cascades
within easy sniffing distance.

Nature’s superstars blindside us,
showy distractions from the fragrant
miracle that blooms over my driveway
each spring, before full-lipped leaves
push through, providing summer shade
before falling in fall.

But for now, and a few more days,
I open the front door and look up,
see my car temporarily tattooed with
the most delicate purple petals.
I inhale deeply to catch a whiff
of what’s left—before the beauty
lets go, dropping petal by petal
into memory, the show over
till next year.