Lilacs

I always bought a big bouquet
Of lilacs every Mothers’ Day.
My mother loved their sweet perfume
Which wafted over every room.

There were no flowers other days
To spruce things up with bright displays,
Just once a year to celebrate
A date for those who procreate.

Today, the lilacs’ cloying scent
Reminds me of when I’d present
A bunch for which I’d proudly paid
On my own Mothers’ Day crusade.

I did it more for me than her;
Were she alive, she might concur
For giving them, I felt more pride
Than what, to her, they could provide.