I wrote a weird, half-asleep poem (I write my best and worst poetry asleep), about lilacs. Sort of. Later, I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and my poem looked me in the face. Here’s a version of Max Ernst’s Garden Airplane-Trap and my poem (ish).
Yes, rustle with lilacs in a field of daisies
pull at their pesky roots
unearth them
toy with them in your hands, pluck each purple bulb in your palm.
See the sky,
green clouds hang low, rolling over the hay.
Why did you find a lilac amongst the daises,
ask yourself.
But don’t think long enough to pause your work,
the day escapes you, more to be done than wrestle with lilacs in a field of daises.
How peculiar.
