A Lily’s Resurrection

Deep down under the frozen earth,
sound asleep away from the heat
lies the motionless body of a lily,
dead but not dead,
a heartbeat away from
the dread of rigor mortis,
the ultimate expiration,
the wandering away from the living,
drifting into the land of the macabre
dressed in black and brown,
plodding ahead in cadence
to a mournful dirge,
locked out of the Kingdom,
the palace of the Almighty,
just a little bulb with no mind at all
but endowed with a botanical spirit
and a divine will to resurrect itself
and sense when the rays of the sun
are drawing near to its heart.
Alas, the inundation of the warmth,
the time for jubilation,
the rites of spring with the
sprouting of its tender boughs,
the christening of its upward journey
through dark fissures in the soil,
softened by the warming eyes
of the sun, the disciple of love,
the blind climbing and determination,
a primal segment of the divine plan,
the magic in the eyes
but the normalcy in the
workings of Mother Nature,
the resurrection of the lily
from near death to life again.

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