ON THE ECHO OF LILIES.

ON THE ECHO OF LILIES

The divine simplicity of meaning echoes with age.

The days and years go by and no one notices a single thing.

A single tear that falls, or the withered face of your mother,

Until, at last, she dies, and nothing is ever the same again.

Life is a lot like the lily.  There are fields of lilies.  Millions

Of them in a single field.  I wish I could point them all out to you,

But I wouldn’t know where to start.  Maybe I could paint you a

Painting and show you that way-but sometimes, pictures are hard, too,

Especially the ones of old photographs where you think everyone

Is happy and carefree, but it turns out there is emotional abuse.

The method of understanding begins with a metaphor-that the beginning

Is that of a teacher, and nothing more. 

Here are the lilies.  Here are the broken promises spread before you on

A canvas of wet paint; that the underlying pain is hidden, echoed deep

In the roots of lies.  The echo is there, buried deep in patterns, trying to

Escape its remembering.