Lilacs

The perfume from the lilacs is intoxicating. It’s especially intense when the air in the dooryard has been still for a time and then a breeze stirs, sending the concentrated fragrance in through the open windows. Walking up to the blooms you can’t help but lean in. Bees buzzing are no threat as they are far too preoccupied with the embarrassment of riches climbing two stories tall and the same in width.

Lilacs are such old fashioned, classic and beautiful trees. Here in New England, a lone stand of lilacs is often the last vestigial proof of where a home once stood, where a family once made a life. Our ubiquitous stone walls may tell tales of crops planted and pastures grazed, but the lilacs say life was about more than just hardscrabble farming. There was beauty too. Something planted and nurtured that did not put food on the table or money in the coffers, but instead was balm to the senses at the beginning and end of long days.