Lilies of the Valley
by Theodora Goss

I was sitting on a bench
under tall trees
looking at the leaves
of lilies of the valley
(but they weren’t in a valley,
just growing out of last year’s
dried brown leaf litter),
feeling rather sorry
for myself, and tired
from the state of the world.
The lilies were not blooming
yet, just green leaves
waving in the wind, no white
bells as pure as purity —
no saint could be
more immaculate, more sweetly
scented, more holy.
But it was not yet
the time for white bells,
only green promises. And I thought,
as I sat on that bench,
that so many things will come,
whether or not we expect them:
clouds like distant islands,
the scent of hidden blossoms,
an end to our sorrows,
joy like a benediction.

(The image is an illustration for Flora’s Feast by Walter Crane.)