My Mom was blind for my entire life. I was always using words to paint for her. She loved flowers, but Lilacs were her favorite. I wrote this when I was thirteen or so.

Lilacs are the smell of the air after a spring rain, and the sun is out.
They are the smell of Nana's neck during a thunderstorm, and I am on her lap.
They are the smell of home, just at sundown, and evening breezes stir.

Lilacs are the taste of blueberries, still hot from the sun.
They are the taste of the first barbecue of spring.
They are the taste of ice cream at the Dairy, while we feed the ducks.

Lilacs  are the sound of the tree frogs, peeping in the night.
They are the sound of spring rain on the tin roof of the back porch.
They are the sound of children laughing, as they blow dandilion seeds.

Lilacs feel like berries heavey on the vine.
They feel like tiny faerie kisses, when you lay them on your cheek.
They feel like cool little pieces of heaven, tied in a tiny bundle.

Lilacs are the first flowers of the spring, they will always mean thay winter's gone.
They will always drench the air with their sweet perfume, so we will know.
It's safe to stay out later, and leave our jackets home. They will always be an invitation to come out and fall asleep in the porch swing listening to the night's song.