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.
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