Here's an old poem that while celebrating spring has an undercurrent of the dark side of nature.
The white lilac has a hundred ghostly fingers.
It points at the first stars.
It points at me
standing in a May twilight
with barbed wire hooking the darkness where
barbs of stars bloom astonishingly.
The cones of the white lilac
shake in a dark wind from the south.
into air, odor of sweet
All night the lilacs will shudder here
at the edge of the meadow while
stars dazzle the sky’s bush—
that black bush of menace.
walks over my grave as my flesh rises.
The roots of the lilacs
strive through my skull, discovering the holes
I gaze out of. Existence
is terrible. The white lilacs
tremble as I tremble,
departing into themselves,
into their clusters of oneness,
refusing to be a symbol,
© 2019 Joan Colby
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