It is not
a sign
of the apocalypse
or shouldn’t be.

The park
is redolent
with the scent
of lilacs in blossom.

You can smell it
blocks away,
and they flock
under the watchful
eye of the crows
to the carny trailers

for kettle corn,
roasted coated nuts,
cotton candy
and the beer tent

waiting
for the music
as the lilacs sit
forlornly wondering
when they
ceased to matter.

First Published in Flora Fiction, Volume 4, Issue 2, Summer 2023