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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Of Lilacs and Boundaries Prompt for: May 2, 2016 (fyn)
Subject or Theme: Something uniquely 'Spring.' That green tinge in the trees, the scent of grass during that first mow, lilacs, ... and apply it to your life.
Word(s) to Include: music box, glass, fantasy, circle (or any derivatives of these words)
Forbidden Word(s): spring, green, grow, (or any derivatives, compound or hyphenations of these words)
Additional Parameters: Min 24 lines, non-rhyming.
Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.
Of Lilacs and Boundaries
I caught a hint of lilacs on the breeze
wafting through my opened window,
but they have yet to bloom, flowers
still curled, bunched in tiny flower fists
so, perhaps, it is only my imagination.
Faintly heard music box tinkling out a tune
that hovers on the edge of my mind;
can't quite place the melody even though
it is familiar and I know I know it. Illusive scent
of lilacs haunts me like that.
I need to wash the windows in my office
as fingerprints, puppy nose smudges smear
my view. I need to see the lilacs, white, purple,
pink on the far side of the glass. But they haven't
burst into being just yet. Robins dance.
Can lilacs be far behind? As a child, when
calendars meant little, I knew the star-shaped flowers
and my birthday came on the heels of each other--
back when that day was eagerly anticipated
and older somehow meant more, rather than less.
Mortality has a shelf life. Birthdays now on
downward spiral, each one runs closer to an ending
rather than springs of my youth when the world
renewed itself and possibilities flourished in new beginnings.
Old enough now to know that endless is a fantasy.
Still, each May, I yearn for lilac moments, for the promise
of warmer days stretching into the broad expanse of summer to come.
I grasp at childhood illusion of life spinning out forever,
a thread weaving into a tapestry that continued to unroll.
For I have much to do and winter circles closer every year.
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