Common Ground
by Vaughn Neeld

We shared a fence line, you and I,
and I wasn't sure if we'd be friends,
but as you worked in your yard,
and I in mine, we began to nod,
then say “hello” or “hi.”
common ground–me being old,
with wrinkled, pale-rose skin,
and you, so young, with your
flawless, peach-gold face.

As spring and summer came and went,
and nods and smiles grew warmer,
I decided when springtime came,
I would offer you a gift, a cutting
from a lovely snow-white lilac.

Your culture believes in giving gift for gift,
so I was not surprised when I found,
resting on the rocking chair on my porch,
a still-moist cutting of an
exuberant, deep-purple lilac.

It became a ritual, year after year,
and now we often sit and chat
among the fragrant blossoms and laugh
when we remember those early springs
when we used to buy each other lilacs.



 

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