Sean Dunn

Lilac Trees (From Behind Screen Door)

You planted these lilacs last spring –
Dew glazed morning light spread
Onto the lawn as you sank the shovel
Into cold earth. You felt for a soft spot

Of soil, somewhere to bury the seed. Your father,
Hard-pressed for daylight, fought the sun
To finish the yard work, years ago. He arrived late
For dinner, downed a glass for each child at the table.

I see him in you
Like a yellow wasp in a purple flower,
Hovering above the sweet part, never quite settled.

At the screen door between us
I watch you trim the aged trees,
Clip the dead leaves, let them sit at your feet.

Birdwatching

I can see from where I’m standing
The footholds on the steps
Where they step, now won’t hold.
Walking, shifting, moving,
Penguin-like in their slow descent,
A group of baby-boomer birdwatchers
Waddles down the stairs.
Prospect Park, early winter.
A lumberjack-hatted man nearly falls back
Into Ebbets Field, Jackie Robinson
And his first girlfriend. It’s damn icy.
I can see her boots and eyes are skiddish,
A three-scarved, one-hipped woman –
A wind from her Bedstuy childhood
Home steals up from beneath the porch
Floorboards, rises and slides across her face.
Her eyes scan and scour, sightless
Of a Lincoln’s sparrow or eastern bluebird,
The birds perhaps humming around
The Lincoln Tunnel or Best Western
Standing where these watchers
Once stood, danced, ran and fell.
I stand behind them, shift my weight in my boots
As they pan the cityscape before me.
The Fifth Avenue Line runs, roars
In the silent moments on this winter day,
Downtown to Bay Ridge. These fragile,
Hopeful birdwatchers know the stops and rocks
Of the fading train like a dirt road home.