Lilacs
I smile,
clutching a handful of freshly-cut lilacs
dew drips from their bones
Wetness
trickles down my thighs, my fingers,
catches in the fatty folds of skin
And here I am the flower
breathing purple, light and wispy,
slipping into history
Stepping into years before me,
familiar as a thread to the fraying seam,
occupying an opening,
returning to the ground