Do the lilies worry?
Do the lilies give orders to the sun?
The rain? The soil food?
The rain does what the rain does.
The lily stretches to the sun.
The lily turns its face to the sun.
The lily reaches out roots.
The roots reach and reach and suck in the soil food.
The rain comes. The soil drinks. The lily drinks.
The soul of the soil is silent.
The soil’s soul is as deep as the pain of breathing,
as deep as the delight of the lily in the bright-white sun.
The Lord gives. The Lord takes away.
Caesar will do what Caesar will do.
I am a lily among lilies on the mountainside,
a field of lilies with roots that reach out,
stretch, wrap and intertwine, sharing soil-food,
the rain, the hug of the sun. And the danger of
a hoof and the nibble of a rabbit and a passing stroller
who takes a fancy to the bloom.
It is autumn now. The snow of winter will come.
Each flower will die and, in the spring, be reborn.
Is this consolation?
The seasons do what the seasons do.
I bloom and endure until enduring is over.
Patrick T. Reardon