Water Lilies

"I waded out into the lake to pick you a 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, brilliant mind as sharp as ever. Did he dream my worship from afar: who sang in his choir, just one more rapt face Sunday evenings 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 pruning bushes. . How I deplored the ugly dredge, spoiling the spotless skin of the lake! Then, serendipity. Up through the rude refuse like water sprites, masses of lilies brought their ravishing beauty, the healing prescription of their daytime full bloom, the secretive folding into themselves at night. Closure. Rhythmic initiation of the life cycle. Moments from a Monet print.