Our childhood smelled of lilacs by Lise Mayne

in our prairie town only the common
purple walked along
our path to school (syringa vulgaris)
a hardy wind-break
imported from Europe no different than
us kids now growing
wildly desperate for summer they were
our clocks
marking days to our release, end of June.
 
Mid-May, sepia beads crept out on branch
tips slowly sprouting into green pearls tied
in knots awaiting the last frost sometimes
 
a rogue storm
seized lime green leaves, hearts already unfurled.
Trembling under snow
Shivering they breathed keeping their feet warm
 
soon blossoms foamed like
shampoo on a baby’s head, bees homed in
excited as kids danced with joy after
six months of winter shed our heavy snow
pants boots toques mitts earmuffs daring to tread
early morning hard puddles relish that
Crack, sweet as toffee breaking on cement
afternoon rubber boots sloshing in mud
we stretched for flowers
wresting a few from their two-fisted grip
on the branch tearing
the stems always too
short to reach the water in our only
vase (a Mason jar)
they flopped like ballerinas purple with
fatigue dying of
thirst
 
Morning bundled soggy newspaper to
Teacher. Many such limp bouquets had she
received from small hands
since
we had nothing else to give so shyly
presented these & she bestowed her smile.
 
We inhaled the perfumed cloud already
ripe with the scent of
full books.
So near the open door we leapt as sun
bleached tiny violet stars burnt to a
crisp.
June slid home we kicked
the can hiding giggling in lilacs dark
with old tired leaves.
 
​“Our childhood smelled of lilacs,” Canadian Authors’ Association, National Capital Branch, 100th Anniversary Competition, Anthology 2021 Building Community, Honourable Mention

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About Lise Mayne
​Lise Mayne writes poetry and historical fiction from her home in Nanton, on the Eastern Slopes. Lilacs are still amongst her favourite prairie flowers.