The smell of lilac and I am eight again
my face buried in purple flowers, lost
in their perfume, not noticing the bees

Some scientists say time is not linear
like an army marching in lockstep
hay foot, straw foot

time folds in on itself, creating wormholes
spacetime tunnels that unlock
the past like Proust’s madeleine

or geraniums in a window box and I am
holding an armful, roots and all
my bare belly covered with dirt

a red offering to my mother
who planted them just that morning
but looks simply delighted

wormholes essential to the world
of poets and prophets, painters and playwrights
who mine the memories of the past

I will smuggle Calamine Lotion
to that eight-year-old and bring back
a sprig of lilac to put on my walker
next to the flaming red geranium