A bridge of lilacs crosses the brook
that runs out of childhood,
as if childhood were a spring and not
a thirst. Cold water, fast water,
ache of that cold, remembering.
That quenching. An outdoor museum--
that's my childhood. Lilacs so thick
you can hear the bees from far away.
Thick with the scent, thick with bees,
all drowned in the noise of the brook.
What did I mean, "a bridge of lilacs'?
That their branches touched each other
over the water? That their dark perfume
could take me back--take me
and never bring me back?