"I waded out into the lake to pick you
a water lily," I told the priest I was in awe of
those many years ago, as I handed him a flower
in a bowl of water. He's 92 now, and ailing--
brilliant mind as sharp as ever. Did he dream
such worship from afar: a young disciple
who sang in his choir, just one more up-
turned face every Sunday evening
in his Inquirer's Class in the old frame hall
called for a venerable parishioner?
The old hall is history now, where once
I taught Sunday School with few credentials
other than that small children invariably found
the child in me. And, anything, just anything,
for our acknowledged leader.
Water lilies are decorating the perimeter
of the lake a few feet from where I live. "Giverny,
chez moi" bringing France to my doorstep--
pristine faces among flat green pods,
whiter than white; buttery centers, pushing
through the refuse the yard guy left after he
mowed down bushes by lake's edge.
How I deplored the ugly dredge left in his wake,
spoiling the spotless skin of the lake.
Then, serendipity! the gift the giftie gie us--
up through the rude refuse like water sprites,
masses of lilies brought their ravishing beauty,
the healing prescription of their daylight full-
bloom, the secretive folding up into themselves
at nightfall. Closure. Rhythmic initiation of
the life cycle. Moments from a Monet print.