Lilacs

I always bought a big bouquet Of lilacs every Mothers’ Day. My mother loved their sweet perfume Which wafted over every room. There were no flowers other days To spruce things up with bright displays, Just once a year to celebrate A date for those who procreate. Today, the lilacs’ cloying scent Reminds me of when I’d present A bunch for which I’d proudly paid On my own Mothers’ Day crusade. I did it more for me than her; Were she alive, she might concur For giving them, I felt more pride Than what, to her, they could provide.