Outside my window grows the summer
sweet garden – resplendent, redolent, still
in the morning dew damp chill.
She does not know about the hours, how
a clock tick captures in mechanical tock.

She knows the sun’s arc, pouring
rain, warm sweet laying ground
under silver white moon urge
tide surge and nights sweeping
over flowers unfolding in rose, lavender,
sweet pea, all the tall grasses –
unfettered by segmented time
broken moments of loss or dread.

I?  I know about time, succumb
as if it were my only
spun and twirling destiny.
What few seasons come and go
that we bloom –
flowers of creation’s fertile desires –
Unfolding under the moon
of the red blooming lilies
without time but this.

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Portland, Oregon – July 9, 2016

My title, “Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies” comes from my recent reading of Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, a classic telling of the tragic story of the destruction of the native peoples of this land, from the side of those who were destroyed.  The author, Dee Brown, does a masterful job of telling the story.  He often added the names of seasons as the native peoples called them.  In this case, the “moon of the red-blooming lilies” corresponds roughly to July.  It is a book I should have read long ago and recommend highly.