phlox flux

Tired and Ready for a Bed of Phlox

Lilacs, busted from the branch,
their twiggy stems beaten
with a wooden meat mallet
(because heaven knows, if it doesn’t kill you,
a beating just might make you stronger)
as they rest now three rooms away from here,
filling the entire house with their thick scent,
their, hello, I’ve survived to decorate your house,
whether you like it or not, here to stay in your face;
however, down the hall, around too many sharp corners,
I’m night-scheming for the moment the wild phlox bloom,
out of sight for winter months, carrying zero scent on arrival,
they bud and peak each moonlight night prior to their ultimate
color explosion of white, pink and lavender as far
and as wide as a crow can fly a country block,
to which my only wish this darkening evening,
is to find the freedom, on daylight, to roll in phlox flux,
releasing their petals and the hard lump in my throat
which I fear tonight is the bulk of too many long-held tears.