There are no lilacs blooming in my soul
The last of them was stolen by that wily thief
Called practicality.

The Sweet Peas of my youthful years are gone.
Their perfume scented all my early efforts, but are
Fading in the glaring sun of duty.

How I loved the midnight-petaled pansies of creation.
They lined the paths in many magic gardens, but were
Crushed beneath the millstone of responsibility.

All the Humming Birds and Meadow Larks have flown,
Leaving me with only the cacophony of crows
When In my heart I long to hear the Mocking Bird.

The clouds no longer speak to me.
The breeze flies by with no kind whisper
And shreds the lacy curtains of my life

Leaving me with only dreams of Hollyhocks and Foxgloves,
Straining for the sight of Red-winged Blackbirds,
Longing for the melody that I can’t sing.

I can’t forget the smell of Summer Lilacs.
There must be a place where they still grow
And I will never stop until I find them.
     ljm