The Gift

(for Leola Day, Nana)

The cow lilies come first,

big and yellow and awkward

like their namesake who chews

her cud, drowsy along the pasture fence;

and we stick it out through June

into July, watchful for the arrival

of the Pond Lilies, coming next,

rising from the lake’s bed amid lily pads,

green and round, the gravid buds appearing,

breaking open in sunlight to settle

on the water’s surface, smooth and reflective,

reflecting the delicate white petals spreading

to catch the sun’s yellow at her center laid;

and we reach down below the surface

to pluck the tubular stem anchoring her there,

illegal, we believe, to do this,

to take one flower, one lily floating there,

but that doesn’t stop us, taking this gift for Nana,

a yearly gift to where she rests now,

because it was her favorite,

because we always did, and do now,

still, for her, this lily of our lives,

delicate, the sun caught, reflected back in us remembering.