Joan Leotta writes

Deadheading Lilacs

 

I did not brave August's heat

to pick off the now paper brown petals

once a profusion of purple blooms

spouted from my bush, a sprig

my grandma gave me.

So they remained, now spent, once

fragrant, now dull.

I missed my chance

to best secure next season's glory.

Now, I must stand shivering

in short days of coming winter

to clip off those old

shriveled blossoms

hoping that in the coming spring

at least some of

those  brown dry stems

will "set" with  buds,

sprout green leaves,

again, explode into a

cascade of color and scent.

As I clip those dried, scent-less husks,

I promise my lilac that when

when he holds forth again,

proliferating tight petal bunches,

I will visit in the yard and clip

to fill my house with fragrant loveliness;

to shape and prepare the bush for

next season's blooming.