Stolen Lilacs Smell Sweeter

We have a deal, my neighbors and I . . .

I cut lush bouquets of their lilacs for my house each year, in season, with their clear, if tacit approval, but only when they are not around to witness the act. That way the neighborhood’s most beautiful lilacs are able to benefit from that longstanding understanding that stolen lilacs smell all the sweeter.

And they do smell sweet, my friends.

Perhaps you think me foolish? Unnecessarily superstitious?

I’m not going to try to make my case or change your mind. I know better. But I will offer you this peek at the transformative power such booty may have upon a quiet room, in a house built more than a century ago, with lines no longer quite square or plumb.

Oh that I might be thus adored and adorned when my own bones have aged . . . when I stand yet a little more crooked. May I still able to see and smell that redolent magic that attends each cherished, stolen bouquet of spring lilacs.

And may I always, always remember . . . to be grateful.


5 thoughts on “Stolen Lilacs Smell Sweeter”

  1. A lilac prayer. You and Walt Whitman — only Walt didn’t have an eye for stunning illustration, more’s the pity. And yes, amen. (Love, love that vase! And the green/purple juxtaposition…sigh.)

    1. Janet, dear, what treasures you bring. The vase was a gift from Mary, who found it a few months back at an estate sale and just had to bring it home to me. I love it too!

  2. I suspect you might be right…my neighbors’ lilacs are tall enough to spill over our fence. A little creative pruning and our quarter-of-a-century house was filled with the scent of lilacs. Carol is also a generous neighbor…

    1. Theresa, not all are so lucky, obviously. Count your blessings and find a way to pay it forward . . . This is the sort of magic that is only taught by example, but it does spread.

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