Waiting for the sun
A thousand lilies, heads bowed
Listening for light
It is a young summer’s morning along the Pacific. The actual field of flowers may or may not have been lilies, and they may or may not have been a thousand of them—perhaps they were only a handful or two, but they were definitely flowers.
Either way, when I see something like this—a field of flowers, or a group or a family of flowers, heads bowed (yes, heads were bowed and petals were unopened in this natural cathedral)—I easily and readily adorn the image with a poetic brush and they become lilies and, yes, a full thousand.
In truth, their posture is of those who listen very carefully.
And what would a lily listen for, so attentively? What would be of such importance to a flower? It struck me as so obvious: sunlight, of course. That far away source of lily-sustenance. They were listening for the rising sun, dreaming of her rising, wishing for her rising, anticipating her rising which would unfold their petals and straighten their necks to turn their faces toward the her.
Oh, yes, I was very, very sure of this.
And the sun, huge, warm, motherly, ever-so-slowly climbing, silhouetting the eastern tree line, seemed very sure of this as well.