Mother and I commune with the lilacs
in her backyard, she taking my hand
to lead her into the shade where

the faintly purple globes hang like
heavy breasts, a little droopy, a little pale,
not unlike mine, actually.

We stand and inhale lilac, which means
that not only is it truly spring, but also
it’s hand watering season.

So I take up the hose on this patch
of earth where she raised us,
the two blonde sisters,

where we played with friends and
puppies, this unfenced yard where
Father hung rope swings,

where more stately oaks once stood
as guardians and tree-climbing
companions till they collapsed from

age and watering. Now I aim the hose
at bushes brimming with first roses,
squirt a profusion of azaleas

in the front yard under the pink dogwood,
upright and blooming in yet another
spring, this one

we’ve all been granted by some miracle,
which we do not take for granted
in our corner of Granite Bay Vista,

an unshakeable foundation—
this rocky bit of Earth where we
and the lilacs have put down

deep, deep roots.