In Uppsala

something changes around April.

The ground thaws to pea-green grass,

the first sharp color of crocuses burst through,

their little periwinkle blossoms a trumpet for spring’s arrival.

The days are longer,

people shed off their woolen underwear,

their sleek, leather booties in favor

of white sneakers and cropped pants.

A warmer wind blows through birches,

and quite suddenly there are lilacs everywhere.

Deep plum-purple lilacs,

snow-white lilacs,

pink lilacs,

lilac lilacs.

Such an abundant flower;

lots of clustered blossoms,

lots of soft, dreamy fragrance,

lots of lots of lots.

When they grow along woodlands,

unused lots,

they are full,

savage as untended briars.

Those were my favorite lilacs.

I can’t speak the language,

the way their r’s rrrroll

into a lush purr.

I don’t understand the people,

the way they linger so long onto silences

at the dinner table.

Sweden doesn’t make sense to me

yet.

But those lovely lilacs growing in parking lot gardens,

those fresh fields of scilla beneath the beech,

those make sense to me,

perhaps

the rest will come.