The robin is whistling
a greeting each morning
with cheer-up, cheer-up.

I know there is no reason
not to stand on my front porch
and lean into your intoxicating scent.

But I’ve been brushing by you
faster on entrances and exits this season
whereas in years past I would pause

at your purple buds and notice each
unfold to curved cones of fragrance
spread among green leaves across my tree.

Syringa, you are lilac
and the syrinx is the noisy throat of a bird
intoning me to come stand on the porch.

Forgive me my neglect.
I have been grieving,
while, all along, you remain steadfast.

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