Where Flowers Bloom

You bought lilies at the market

on a Sunday

for me.

Closed lilies.

Brought them home, pleased.

I felt the intention of your gesture

to please.

As there, by the sink,

I measured the length of their stems

against that crystal vase

from Tiffany

for our wedding.

Cut them to size,

arranged as I liked.

In spite of their sparseness,

saw their promise.

All that Sunday, I waited and waited.

When I remembered,

I’d take a breath, long and deep

in hopes of that sweet perfume

of our wedding day...

the Newport room.

All I got was the food the kids left

from lunch—

something lewd from the garbage,

nothing at best.

The days progressed.

Each held the hope...

perhaps those lilies you brought me,

to satisfy my sentimental longing

would have opened up

and shown themselves.

Blessed me with their wealth of sensory beauty.

Caressed me with the scent that ties me to you.

Too bad.

A week passed through.

A busy room

passed through

a staggering number of times.

And those stubborn lilies

in that radiant vase

just wouldn’t oblige to open up.

All I’d hoped was that they’d open up.

Hope—

was not enough.

As I made my way over

to pluck those lilies

closed tight as clams—

I glanced

out into the yard.

Yes, that yard I remark needs to be tended to—

and tend you do,

upon request.

And right there,

to my surprise,

pure white in the daylight,

beautiful lilies

open wide.

Those bulbs you planted the year before—

in fertile soil,

far richer than what they sold in the store where you bought the flowers

the Sunday before,

now breathtaking lilies.

Right there in our vase,

they fill this room,

this home,

with your love for me.

Not store bought love…

love placed so well in the ground

it grows roots…

sprouts up and blooms all on its own.

The kind of love one can’t hold

like a store bought trinket

though, somehow,

it grows old

as we do.

It’s a perennial love.

The kind to be relied upon.

It blossoms and withers,

blossoms again.

Each time,

more plentiful,

more fragrant,

more beautiful.

-Jayme