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
-Jayme
