This is the week
that all the lilacs bloomed,
bursting out too quickly for me to say
that they unfolded.
Their heavy, sweet smell,
wet with newness,
unrolls across the city, a tapestry
embroidered with May.
I touch them;
I brush my fingertips across each cluster
as I pass, lift them to my face and breathe,
overcome by the feeling of home,
by the idea of belonging.
But I do not belong
to these lilacs; they are not mine;
this house is not mine; this land
is not mine; it is only part of this city
that is also not mine,
and the house with the lilacs
where I lived long ago
was not my home