Lily, I am in love with you. You enter my life, stay a short while, but make such a lasting impression! Who painted those exquisite crimson lines on your curves, in your hollows?

How you surprised me a few years back, rising up from the ground, having arrived in my bed by some mysterious hand.

Today you stand tall, holding tightly the petals of your new blooms, keeping them to yourself, until you are ready to let go. How I adore the necks of the blooms that have opened, the ones already spent! Those necks—they almost beg to be kissed and caressed.

But it’s not just passion you inspire. You gift me, too, with your show of order and strength, such soothing precision in your posture. And, there is a plan, I am sure, to your unfolding that only you can know.

Lily, what a lover you are!

There is a flash of dancing black and yellow among the thimble berry blooms, and you scamper through the thorns toward it, convinced that this is one of the beautiful native swallowtails.  The butterfly is somewhat agitated and perches here and there, but never for long, and it does not spread its wings for a classic butterfly photo.  So be it.

When you return home and download the day’s images into the computer, you realize that this sighting was something very special indeed.  Your magnificent visitor was a Giant Swallowtail, and they don’t live this far north.  Wonder of wonders, you were there in the woods to see it.

It seems like this kind of endeavor, this crazy house-building project properly belonged in our youth.  But sometimes it’s important, and even necessary, to live life backwards a bit so that it’s possible to move forward again.  And when you’re pushing into the seventh decade of your life, direction probably matters less than the desire to simply keep moving and be adventurous about it; to continue to meet the Davids of the world and to know that your life is richer for such encounters.