This is the season when mock oranges
Fill my patio with white flowers,
Reaching high as if to see
If they can touch the Texas clouds
That float by on Gulf breezes.
Decades ago I planted one
In memory of early days
When sweet perfume
Had drifted in our Kansas bedroom
Through opened windows.
Now, alone and old and lame,
I look out at the blooms,
At flocks of butterflies
That flutter there, sipping nectar,
Much the same as I seek sustenance
In thoughts of other springtimes
And of you.
©2023 John I. Blair 4/29/2023