Rain Lilies Quotes

Adam finally sat down on one of the pews. Laying his cheek against the smooth back of it, he looked at Ronan. Strangely enough, Ronan belonged here, too, just as he had at the Barns. This noisy, lush religion had created him just as much as his father's world of dreams; it seemed impossible for all of Ronan to exist in one person. Adam was beginning to realize that he hadn't known Ronan at all. Or rather, he had known part of him and assumed it was all of him. The scent of Cabeswater, all trees after rain, drifted past Adam, and he realized that while he'd been looking at Ronan, Ronan had been looking at him.

I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air - An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds - A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life?

Adam was beginning to realize he hadn't known Ronan at all. Or rather, he had known part of him and assumed it was all of him. The scent of Cabeswater, all trees after rain, drifted past Adam, and he realized that while he'd been looking at Ronan, Ronan had been looking at him.

When all else fails just breath !

It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head-and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

when she was a seven-year-old she had declared rain to be the best weather because it was reading weather.

Adam was beginning to realize that he hadn’t known Ronan at all. Or rather, he had known part of him and assumed it was all of him. The scent of Cabeswater, all trees after rain, drifted past Adam, and he realized that while he’d been looking at Ronan, Ronan had been looking at him.

A pure drop of rain may fall on a beautiful water lily or on a dirty mud pond! This is exactly what happens when we are born!

Okay.' I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue. O. K. A. Y. I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back: The puppy farm. The gentle untying of the shoelace. THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW! Our first night together. Running on the beach. Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee. Shared ice-cream cones. Thanksgivings. Tofurky. Car rides. Laughter. Eye rain. Chicken and rice. Paralysis. Surgery. Christmases. Walks. Dog parks. Squirrel chasing. Naps. Snuggling. 'Fishful Thinking.' The adventure at sea. Gentle kisses. Manic kisses. More eye rain. So much eye rain. Red ball. The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily's chest, listening for her heartbeat. All dogs go to heaven. 'Your mother's name is Witchie-Poo.' I stroke Lily behind her ears the way that used to calm her. 'Look for her.' OH FUCK IT HURTS. I barely whisper. 'She will take care of you.

Although, fanciful's origin circa 1627 made me still love the word, even if I'd ruined its applicability to my connection with Snarl. (I mean DASH!) Like, I could totally see Mrs. Mary Poppencock returning home to her cobblestone hut with the thatched roof in Thamesburyshire, Jolly Olde England, and saying to her husband, "Good sir Bruce, would it not be wonderful to have a roof that doesn't leak when it rains on our green shires, and stuff?" And Sir Bruce Poppencock would have been like, "I say, missus, you're very fanciful with your ideas today." To which Mrs. P. responded, "Why, Master P., you've made up a word! What year is it? I do believe it's circa 1627! Let's carve the year--we think--on a stone so no one forgets. Fanciful! Dear man, you are a genius. I'm so glad my father forced me to marry you and allow you to impregnate me every year.

Dear Daniel, How do you break up with your boyfriend in a way that tells him, "I don't want to sleep with you on a regular basis anymore, but please be available for late night booty calls if I run out of other options"? Lily Charlotte, NC Dear Lily, The story's so old you can't tell it anymore without everyone groaning, even your oldest friends with the last of their drinks shivering around the ice in their dirty glasses. The music playing is the same album everyone has. Those shoes, everybody has the same shoes on. It looked a little like rain so on person brought an umbrella, useless now in the starstruck clouded sky, forgotten on the way home, which is how the umbrella ended up in her place anyway. Everyone gets older on nights like this. And still it's a fresh slap in the face of everything you had going, that precarious shelf in the shallow closet that will certainly, certainly fall someday. Photographs slipping into a crack to be found by the next tenant, that one squinter third from the left laughing at something your roommate said, the coaster from that place in the city you used to live in, gone now. A letter that seemed important for reasons you can't remember, throw it out, the entry in the address book you won't erase but won't keep when you get a new phone, let it pass and don't worry about it. You don't think about them; "I haven't thought about them in forever," you would say if anybody brought it up, and nobody does." You think about them all the time. Close the book but forget to turn off the light, just sit staring in bed until you blink and you're out of it, some noise on the other side of the wall reminding you you're still here. That's it, that's everything. There's no statue in the town square with an inscription with words to live by. The actor got slapped this morning by someone she loved, slapped right across the face, but there's no trace of it on any channel no matter how late you watch. How many people--really, count them up--know where you are? How many will look after you when you don't show up? The churches and train stations are creaky and the street signs, the menus, the writing on the wall, it all feels like the wrong language. Nobody, nobody knows what you're thinking of when you lean your head against the wall. Put a sweater on when you get cold. Remind yourself, this is the night, because it is. You're free to sing what you want as you walk there, the trees rustling spookily and certainly and quietly and inimitably. Whatever shoes you want, fuck it, you're comfortable. Don't trust anyone's directions. Write what you might forget on the back of your hand, and slam down the cheap stuff and never mind the bad music from the window three floors up or what the boys shouted from the car nine years ago that keeps rattling around in your head, because you're here, you are, for the warmth of someone's wrists where the sleeve stops and the glove doesn't quite begin, and the slant of the voice on the punch line of the joke and the reflection of the moon in the water on the street as you stand still for a moment and gather your courage and take a breath before stealing away through the door. Look at it there. Take a good look. It looks like rain. Love, Daniel Handler

The syrup of lilies hangs thick and sweet in the air, its cloying scent the traditional mask of death and rebirth: ashes and incense, rain and dirt, and something like rosin. It's the scent Hector associates with God. The scent of heavenly things.

The scent of Cabeswater, all trees after rain, drifted past Adam, and he realized that while he'd been looking at Ronan, Ronan had been looking at him.

Narrative is the way to communicate ideas. Philosophy just tastes bad to most people unless you wrap it up in a good story.

But we who remain shall grow old We shall know the cold Of cheerless Winter and the rain of Autumn and the sting Of poverty, of love despised and of disgraces, And mirrors showing stained and aging faces, And the long ranges of comfortless years And the long gamut of human fears... But, for you, it shall forever be spring, And only you shall be forever fearless, And only you have white, straight, tireless limbs, And only you, where the water-lily swims Shall walk along the pathways thro' the willows Of your west. You who went West, and only you on silvery twilight pillows Shall take your rest In the soft sweet glooms Of twilight rooms...

And I prayed and prayed, ‘Oh, you…Something,’ I said, ‘you Something because of whom there is not Nothing. Help me to do Thy will. Take off my stupid sins. Untrammel me. Heavenly Father, open up my dumb heart and for Christ’s sake preserve me from unreal things. Oh, Thou who tookest me from pigs, let me not be killed over lions. And forgive my crimes and nonsense and let me return to Lily and the kids.

Our love is rare. It’s one I can’t abandon, even if I tried. When she screams, an identical one rips through me. When she cries, my world rains with grief. When she loves, I truly, truly fly. I have never wanted anyone else but Lily.

THE LILIES This morning it was, on the pavement, When that smell hit me again And set the houses reeling. People passed like rain: (The way rain moves and advances over the hills) And it was hot, hot and dank, The smell like animals, strong, but sweet too. What was it? Something I had forgotten. I tried to remember, standing there, Sniffing the air on the pavement. Somehow I thought of flowers. Flowers! That bad smell! I looked: down lanes, past houses-- There, behind a hoarding, A rubbish-heap, soft and wet and rotten. Then I remembered: After the rain, on the farm, The vlei that was dry and paler than a stone Suddenly turned wet and green and warm. The green was a clash of music. Dry Africa became a swamp And swamp-birds with long beaks Went humming and flashing over the reeds And cicadas shrilling like a train. I took off my clothes and waded into the water. Under my feet first grass, then mud, Then all squelch and water to my waist. A faint iridescence of decay, The heat swimming over the creeks Where the lilies grew that I wanted: Great lilies, white, with pink streaks That stood to their necks in the water. Armfuls I gathered, working there all day. With the green scum closing round my waist, The little frogs about my legs, And jelly-trails of frog-spawn round the stems. Once I saw a snake, drowsing on a stone, Letting his coils trail into the water. I expect he was glad of rain too After nine moinths of being dry as bark. I don't know why I picked those lilies, Piling them on the grass in heaps, For after an hour they blackened, stank. When I left at dark, Red and sore and stupid from the heat, Happy as if I'd built a town, All over the grass were rank Soft, decaying heaps of lilies And the flies over them like black flies on meat...

As if reading his mind, Lily huffed. “You’re as predictable as the spring rains, son of mine, and as boring as drying paint. Unless there’s an emergency, you’re home every night by seven, you eat dinner by yourself, go for a run, watch exactly one hour of TV by yourself, and go to bed at ten o’clock. If God ever loses his watch, he only has to look at Lance Beaufort to get back on schedule.” ... “I’ve been having trouble with my phone,” he tried. Lily took two strides to the desk, leaned over it with both hands braced on the surface, and stared. “Okay, yes! I have been over there. But it’s for work. And…and it’s work related!” “Oh? Explain that to me, because I thought you were the sheriff, not in training for a role in Lassie.

As spring comes with thick pink blooms, daffodil openings and lavender lilies, the earth starts singing a song of awakening, and from the depths of despair comes the landscape of colors and hope for spring rain falls on the grounds at last. The earth is reborn with smiling blossoms and you believe in something called second chances.

Even in the rain the flowers were lovely: red columbine, monkey flower, monkshood, gentian, wooly daisies, tiger lilies, asters, penstemon, pussy paws,

Fair as a lily, joyous and free, light of that little home was she. Ev'ryone who knew her felt the gentle pow'r of Scarlett Rain, my sweet wildflow’r.

Lily has never gotton used to being alone. They turn in the water and turn again, then Ambrose lifts her above the surface once more and the creek rains down from her. He lays her gently on her back and her heart breaks. Her tears begin to flow because he is leaving - don't go! He sinks into the water on his back - take me with you! His body turns white again and shimmers into segments until all the pieces disappear. Lily lies face down at right angles to the creek, her head hanging over the edge, arms outstretched towards the spot where she last saw her brother.

But you know!" Lily exclaimed. "I know about Father's death," Bronwyn crisply countered,wishing Lily had some ability to control her emotions. But it was like asking the rain to fall everywhere but a single spot.Futile.

Maybe in this nation of the flesh, Distance will hold us together, as I try to remember her bent low to the bleeding heart’s small petals, and around us, buds of wild lilies where once there was a shallow gorge that dipped into the clearing and horses claimed the fields; and that one night she couldn’t sleep, she walked into the same field to behold the stars she once named for me. Maybe now I will understand what secrets she wanted to share that night while I pretended to sleep. Years later, we returned to that place only to discover that the rains had flooded the field into a lake, as if all memory was fiction, as if memory had turned things around.

Imagine fish swimming in a shallow pond, just below the lily pads, thinking that their “universe” is only two-dimensional. Our three-dimensional world may be beyond their ken. But there is a way in which they can detect the presence of the third dimension. If it rains, they can clearly see the shadows of ripples traveling along the surface of the pond. Similarly, we cannot see the fifth dimension, but ripples in the fifth dimension appear to us as light.

It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head — and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head — and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

One of the Maenads Speaks to the Singing Head of Orpheus as It Floats Downriver” How can I explain what we have done to you? We heard in your voice the mad longing to be broken from the body’s reins, to return to your beloved and put your lips to the bite marks on her ankle. For too long you held to the blue-dark loss that laid beside you. Didn’t you know we were always meant to lose everything? Don’t mourn. After love, there is more love. I have seen it. One sigh held by another, held by another. I kept your head in my lap while the others took your body from you, their teeth on your collar bones, fingernails plucking chords from your throat. Death and madness can be the same kind of deliverance. Flies are laying eggs in the wreckage of your neck, but you keep singing. The rain lilies you pass gather your melodies, so I uproot them. Nightingales open their beaks to swallow your notes, and I stone them. Love is a song you sing in search of deeper water. The body, you leave behind. The music travels with you.

Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly Afghan Duryodhan in blazing sun removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn crude hell’s profuse experience Huh a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown wet-eyed babies were smiling . in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers in famished yellow winter white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar when in chiseled breeze nickel glazed seed-kernel moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night non-weeping male praying mantis in grass bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel . in comb-flowing rain floated on frowning waves diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans all wings had been removed from the sky funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole outside in autumnal rice pounding pink ankle Lalung ladies

On a motorcycle, I learned to let go of the vast uncertainty and focus instead on what is in front of me: the surface of the road and the curve of it, the vehicles in front and behind, the wind and the rain and the wildlife peeking out of the grass. There are times when I struggle to manage every last detail as it whips pat me, to hold on to past and present and future simultaneously, but they're not mine to understand, or control. I have to remind myself, again and again, that only this is mine: this moment, this heartbeat, this decision.

Perched on silk cushions, nestled in the dormer window, Lily watched the rain from her favorite spot in the massive bedroom, a reclusive tower overlooking the winter gardens. In her mind’s eye, she saw raindrops seeping deep into the soil, bringing nutrients and working their magic on her dormant plants.

For a moment, there was the scream of tires and the mad chime of broken glass, the soft petals of white lilies, and a clod of dirt breaking apart in Feyi’s hand, but she brushed it all aside like smoke. “Single,” she’d said in return, stepping right into his personal space. He smelled of rain and bergamot.

And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence. "It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

One night, around the campfire after a dinner of bully-beef stew, someone opened an extra bottle of rum. ‘As it grew darker, the men began to sing, at first slightly self-conscious and shy, but picking up confidence as the song spread.’ Their songs were not the martial chants of warriors, but the schmaltzy romantic popular tunes of the time: ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, ‘My Melancholy Baby’, ‘I’m Dancing with Tears in My Eyes’. The bigger and burlier the singer, Pleydell noted, the more passionate and heartfelt the singing. Now the French contingent struck up, with a warbling rendition of ‘Madeleine’, the bittersweet song of a man whose lilacs for his lover have been left to wilt in the rain. Then it was the turn of the German prisoners who, after some debate, belted out ‘Lili Marleen’, the unofficial anthem of the Afrika Korps, complete with harmonies: ‘Vor der Kaserne / Vor dem grossen Tor / Stand eine Laterne / Und steht sie noch davor …’ (Usually rendered in English as: Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate, darling I remember, how you used to wait.) As the last verse died away, the audience broke into loud whistles and applause. To his own astonishment, Pleydell was profoundly moved. ‘There was something special about that night,’ he wrote years later. ‘We had formed a small solitary island of voices; voices which faded and were caught up in the wilderness. A little cluster of men singing in the desert. An expression of feeling that defied the vastness of its surroundings … a strange body of men thrown together for a few days by the fortunes of war.’ The doctor from Lewisham had come in search of authenticity, and he had found it deep in the desert, among hard soldiers singing sentimental songs to imaginary sweethearts in three languages.

Heaviness follows and it presses down on every part of me. So much gravity, pushing down on my emotions. Everything shatters. My tears, my heart, my laughter, my soul. Shattered like broken glass, raining down around me. I wrap my arms over my head and try to wish away the last ten seconds. “Goddammit, Lily,” I hear him say. “It’s not funny. This hand is my fucking career.

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin.” “As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed, long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore. Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below.

Lily Chadwick knew there was something different about the fiercely scowling gentleman the first moment she saw him. She could feel it. The instant their gazes met, caught, held, something skittered across her skin like a rain of white sparks. It entered her bloodstream, heating her from the inside until her breath became stilted and her knees went alarmingly weak. He stared at her from beneath a brow drawn low in a forbidding expression. His eyes were so dark, even the light of the glittering ballroom could not be reflected there. The angles of his face were hard, his jaw sharply defined, and he held his mouth in a harsh line that attempted to harden the full curve of his lower lip but didn't quite manage it. Lily tried to glance away demurely, but she couldn't seem to manage. She felt a flutter that became a tightening in her belly. Her heart stopped, skipped a few beats, then started up again in a frantic rhythm as he just kept watching her. Despite his severe, aloof appearance, something about him reached out to her, touching her with an intrinsic sort of recognition. It left her feeling as though she stood in the heart of a firestorm. She sensed with a certainty beyond rational explanation that his unyielding manner was a facade, as if he were a hero in some gothic novel. There was passion in him. She felt it in every quickened, prey-like breath she took while frozen under his intent stare. The silent interaction between them was becoming more inappropriate by the minute, yet she could not compel herself to break away. As though caught in an invisible trap, she stared back at him while her hands began to sweat and her stomach trembled.

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed,long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore. Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below.

native nostalgia, a prelude to the now when will we ever feel safe in the Mother City’s nest? Neng? Nini? i long for a time when harmony between humans and nature was not a utopian dream scattered by the patter of raindrops that threaten rooftops. the rain that is no longer euphony or lullaby to hush you to slumber. a storm is fast approaching, stay on higher ground, dig up trenches and unclog the drains wailing voices choking within the Mother City echo code red, declare this a national emergency belligerent tempest(s) warn of a time to come, a treaty between the mortals and the natural environment is needed! displaced, confused, we’ve become strangers to the Mother City are you going to listen to the wind, or are you going to wait for floating lilies to deliver seeds of condolences?

One of the bonds between Lily and me is that we both suffer with our teeth. She is twenty years my junior but we wear bridges, each of us. Mine are at the sides, hers are in front. She has lost the four upper incisors. It happened while she was still in high school, out playing golf with her father, whom she adored. The poor old guy was a lush and far too drunk to be out on a golf course that day. Without looking or given warning, he drove from the first tee and on the backswing struck his daughter. It always kills me to think of that cursed hot July golf course, and this drunk from the plumbing supply business, and the girl of fifteen bleeding. Damn these weak drunks! Damn these unsteady men! I can't stand these clowns who go out in public as soon as they get swacked to show how broken-hearted they are. But Lily would never hear a single word against him and wept for him sooner than for herself. She carries his photo in her wallet.

Yes, love is just something that you can feel. Like the rain on a warm spring day. Like the blossoms from the pear trees landing on your shoulders, as I walk, you’re walking down the path to the bridge, similar to the haze from the golden fields; it all reminds me of when I got everything I ever wanted. I remember Lily as she was to me, I believed at the time that- ‘The spaces between our fingers were created so that we could fill them in as we held hands; She was just the right size for me in every way.’ I still love her, even though she is still with me it is not the same, yet I love my new life also, yet why could I have it all, in my life? Yes, I feel that I have walked in the center of the valley of death, and she has comforted me. I would say that she is looking over me; she comforts me as much as she can. But- then it is not having her here, in her earthly body. It can be hard having faith in something that cannot be expressed in words. But- that is what remembering life is about, having faith that there is a plan for everything.

The plant grows by receiving that which God has provided to sustain its life. It sends down its roots into the earth. It drinks in the sunshine, the dew, and the rain. It receives the life-giving properties from the air. So the {67} Christian is to grow by co-operating with the divine agencies. Feeling our helplessness, we are to improve all the opportunities granted us to gain a fuller experience. As the plant takes root in the soil, so we are to take deep root in Christ. As the plant receives the sunshine, the dew, and the rain, we are to open our hearts to the Holy Spirit. The work is to be done “not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord of hosts.” Zech. 4:6. If we keep our minds stayed upon Christ, He will come unto us “as the rain, as the latter and former rain unto the earth.” Hosea 6:3. As the Sun of Righteousness, He will arise upon us “with healing in His wings.” Mal. 4:2. We shall “grow as the lily.” We shall “revive as the corn, and grow as the vine.” Hosea 14:5, 7. By constantly relying upon Christ as our personal Saviour, we shall grow up into Him in all things who is our head.

You are like me, you will die too, but not today: you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine: if I say to you “To you I say,” you have not been set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost radio, may never be an oil painting or Old Master’s charcoal sketch: you are a concordance of person, number, voice, and place, strawberries spread through your name as if it were budding shrubs, how you remind me of some spring, the waters as cool and clear (late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind), which is where you occur in grassy moonlight: and you are a lily, an aster, white trillium or viburnum, by all rights mine, white star in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving from its earthwards journeys, here where there is no snow (I dreamed the snow was you, when there was snow), you are my right, have come to be my night (your body takes on the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep becomes you): and you fall from the sky with several flowers, words spill from your mouth in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees and seas have flown away, I call it loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you, a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all, and free of any eden we can name.

Listen to Me in the truth of your soul. Listen to Me in the feelings of your heart. Listen to Me in the quiet of your mind. Hear Me, everywhere. Whenever you have a question, simply know that I have answered it already. Then open your eyes to your world. My response could be in an article already published. In the sermon already written and about to be delivered. In the movie now being made. In the song just yesterday composed. In the words about to be said by a loved one. In the heart of a new friend about to be made. My Truth is in the whisper of the wind, the babble of the brook, the crack of the thunder, the tap of the rain. It is the feel of the earth, the fragrance of the lily, the warmth of the sun, the pull of the moon. My Truth—and your surest help in time of need—is as awesome as the night sky, and as simply, incontrovertibly, trustful as a baby’s gurgle. It is as loud as a pounding heartbeat—and as quiet as a breath taken in unity with Me. I will not leave you, I cannot leave you, for you are My creation and My product, My daughter and My son, My purpose and My…Self. Call on Me, therefore, wherever and whenever you are separate from the peace that I am. I will be there. With Truth. And Light. And Love.

They waited at the back door until the storm clouds passed. The sky was violet and the light was silver. Alice followed her mother into the garden that was glossy with rain. They came to a bush her mother had planted recently. When Alice last took notice, it was just a tumble of bright green leaves. Now, after the rain, the bush was thick with fragrant white flowers. She studied them in bewilderment. 'Thought you might like these,' her mother said. 'Is it magic?' Alice reached out to touch one of the petals. 'The best kind.' Her mother nodded. 'Flower magic.' Alice bent down to get as close as she could. 'What are they, Mama?' 'Storm lilies. Just like the night you were born. They only flower after a good downpour.' Alice leant down and studied them closely. Their petals were flung open, leaving their centers fully exposed. 'They can't exist without rain?' Alice asked, straightening up. Her mother considered her for a moment before nodding. 'When I was in your father's truck the night you were born, they were growing wild by the road. I remember seeing them in bloom in the storm.' She looked away but Alice saw her mother's eyes fill. 'Alice,' her mother began. 'I planted the storm lilies here for a reason.' Alice nodded. 'Storm lilies are a sign of expectation. Of the goodness that can come from hardship.

Trumpets blared. ’Denham’s Dentifrice.’ Shut up, thought Montag. Consider the lilies of the field. ’Denham’s Dentifrice.’ They toil not — ’Denham’s —’ He tore the book open and flicked the pages and felt them as if he were blind, he picked at the shape of the individual letters, not blinking. ’Denham’s. Spelled: D-E-N —’ They toil not, neither do they … A fierce whisper of hot sand through empty sieve. ’Denham’s does it!’ Consider the lilies, the lilies, the lilies … ’Denham’s dental detergent.’ ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’ It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist. The people who have been sitting a moment before, tapping their feet to the rhythm of Denham’s Dentifrice, Denham’s Dandy Dental Detergent, Denham’s Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice, one two, one two three, one two, one two three. The people whose mouths had been faintly twitching the words Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice. The train radio vomited upon Montag, in retaliation, a great ton-load of music made of tin, copper, silver, chromium, and brass. The people were pounded into submission; they did not run; there was no place to run; the great air-train fell down its shafts in the earth. ’Lilies of the field.’ ’Denham’s.’ ’Lilies, I said!’ The people stared. ’Call the guard.’ ’The man’s off —’ ’Knoll View!’ The train hissed to its stop. ’Knoll View!’ A cry. ’Denham’s.’ A whisper. Montag’s mouth barely moved. ‘Lilies …’ The train door whistled open. Montag stood. The door gasped, started shut. Only then did he leap past the other passengers, screaming his mind, plunge through the slicing door only in time. He rain on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. A voice drifted after him, ‘Denham’s Denham’s Denham’s,’ the train hissed like a snake. The train vanished in its hole.

True friends are those who are your umbrella when problems come like a nonstop rain. They are not the thunder. Teddy

the road there began with kindness. This philosophy informed his actions toward Cadence in those first weeks. Unlike some of the others, who mistook Cadence’s cold and closed-off ways for pretentiousness, Sully saw only fear. When she bolted her eyes to the ground and wrapped her bony arms around herself, he saw someone who wanted to evade attention. When she countered a person’s questions with monosyllabic replies, he saw someone who was overly conscientious about what escaped her lips. To act otherwise would mean to draw someone’s ire. What really cemented his suspicions was what happened one Saturday, when he and Spencer were cleaning out the house’s rain gutters. Sully was perched on the coarse, flagstone shingles, using a garden spade to excavate the debris (leaves and twigs from a week of thunderstorms) and sending it all down below where Spencer waited, stretching open the mouth of a trash bag. Most of the debris landed everywhere but inside the bag, but as Spencer wasn’t fond of

Outlaw, Liam, and Reilly’s kids: Arie and Elric Mayhem and Torrin’s twins: Roark and Taryn Deviant and Tage’s kids: Welliver and Lily Romeo and Justice’s kid: Helrick Chaos and Beau’s kid: Rain Grim and Valentine’s kid: Pendergrass Whip and Harley: No kids       Chapter

Lily was thrilled about the weather. Post-rain is the best time for her to catch insects so I suspect I won’t see her all morning. “Come on!” Sasha says. “Let’s be the first ones there so we get to pick our own teams.” No one moves. Even Lily is already up and out today. Post-rain is the best time for her to catch insects so I suspect I won’t see her all morning.

On clear nights the stars pierce a million holes in the darkness.

The smoke of his breath drifts past my ear up toward the stars.

Me? I am that I am what I will always be— and they? They are what I allow them to be, a lone lily at the edge of the cliff begging for rain. And at the cliff’s edge, I come

I had a stack of money, I would seriously be making it rain right now.

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air – An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds – A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life? — Mary Oliver, “The Swan,” Swan: Poems and Prose Poems. (Beacon Press; 1St Edition edition September 14, 2010)

Maybe she didn’t want a comfortable life. Maybe she wanted a challenging life. You’d shoot yourself if you had to be a smart woman in Dover, Massachusetts in 1930.

Adeline blinks, her lips parting, her shoulders moving with every quick breath. How she doesn’t remember me while we stand like this is astounding. We’ve been here before. In the rain. On a day I should have kissed her and claimed her as mine.

appeared on their backs. Then Kirsty and Rachel noticed that the

Lily loved rain. She loved the sound, the smell, the feeling it gave her of a fresh start. Every time it rained, she felt as though it was a cleansing, cathartic experience. A new beginning. The old was washed away and there was a clean slate.

We blended and look to what it has brought us. I planted lilies on your grave. The rain is already splattering them with dripping dew. May they last another hundred years, Gerard. A hundred years of lilies.

So, are you going to come to a swim practice, put a smile on Hal’s face?” Lily shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll make time to visit Hal this week, but I prefer ocean swimming these days.” Sean looked out at the pouring rain. “In this muck?” His smile turned knowing. “Oh, right. I see.” “What? What are you talking about?” “Why you don’t want to come. It’d be embarrassing to swim with your old coach if you’re no longer . . .” He let the sentence trail off. “I’m just as fast as I used to be,” she retorted. “Hey, it’s okay, really,” he said in a soothing tone, one that he knew would infuriate her. He was, after all, blessed with a true talent when it came to pissing off Lily. “Lots of swimmers lose their edge—” “What time’s practice?” she demanded curtly. The annoyed glint in her crystalline eyes told Sean all he needed. He had her. “Eight to ten, every night,” he informed her easily. “So, you’ll come?” Lips pursed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, Lily swept past him, regal as a queen under a drenching rain. With a grin Sean called after her, “See you later tonight, Lily.

She knocked at the door and was admitted by Corporal Pierce, the good-looking, dark-haired young man who worked in Colonel Tibbet’s office and had leave time coming up soon. He smiled broadly and ran one hand over his slicked-back hair. “Hello, Miss Lily,” he said, and he made a great business out of helping Lily off with her cloak, as if she hadn’t removed it on her own a thousand times. “Would you like some punch and cake?” Lily cast a surreptitious glance around the crowded parlor and saw Caleb standing on the far side of the room, a cup of punch in his hand, speaking with Sandra’s friend, Lieutenant Costner. He met Lily’s look, as quick as it was, but there was time enough for her to see the lack of interest in his eyes. “Yes, please,” she said brightly to Corporal Pierce, who was still standing attentively at her side. “Punch and cake would be very nice, thank you.” While the corporal hurried off to the refreshment table Lily scanned the room again, this time slowly, her gaze deliberately skirting Caleb. Despite her cool demeanor, however, she felt bruised. Just a day before he’d brought her candy and demanded that she come and live with him. Now he didn’t seem aware of her existence. “My first name is Wilbur, ma’am,” the corporal confided, returning with a plate of cake and a cup brimming with pink punch. Lily spotted a nearby chair and wended her way toward it. Reaching her destination, she sat down, balancing her cake plate on her knees, and gazed up at her new friend with her most devastating smile. “Wilbur,” she echoed, saying the name as though it were somehow Olympian and anyone bearing it would surely have wings upon his feet. Wilbur crouched beside her. “I know those rumors aren’t true,” he said earnestly. “About your washing business, I mean.” Lily might have choked on her first bite of cake if she hadn’t seen out of the corner of her eye that Caleb was watching her. She set her punch on the figurine-cluttered table beside her chair and patted Wilbur’s cheek affectionately. “Thank you, Wilbur,” she said softly. The young man fairly beamed. “I’ll bring, my wash over tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.” Lily risked a glance at Caleb and found that he was concentrating on a conversation with a plump blond woman wearing a blue sateen dress. “That’ll be fine,” she answered distractedly. “Of course, if it’s raining again, everything will take longer.” Before

There are times when Los Angeles is the most magical city on Earth. When the Santa Ana winds sweep through and the air is warm and so, so clear. When the jacaranda trees bloom in the most brilliant lilac violet. When the ocean sparkles on a warm February day and you're pushing fine grains of sand through your bare toes while the rest of the country is hunkered down under blankets slurping soup. But other times, like when the jacaranda trees drop their blossoms in an eerie purple rain, Los Angeles feels like only a half-formed dream. Like perhaps the city was founded as a strip mall in the early 1970s and has no real reason to exist. An afterthought from the designer of some other, better city. A playground made only for attractive people to eat expensive salads.

How could a poet less than twenty years old describe how time weighed on his shoulders, how it had left scars on his body, how it made the ground sprout lily after lily and the gazelles give birth to gazelle after gazelle, and the days and nights pass in succession without his love for his beloved diminishing one iota? You told yourself that sometimes one’s words can sing the praises of something you know nothing about or overestimate the permanence of feelings. They can immortalise a moment that soon proves to be transitory, if not pathetic. You also said that it is emotional and intellectual discipline that generally gives words a way out, saves them from the nonsense of their firm promises and makes it possible to read them again with as little disgust as possible.

When she bent to set another pitcher beside Travis, and he absently reached out to hug her hips, Cade's composure cracked. Lily gasped in surprise as Travis's hand was ripped from her side and then Travis himself was hauled from his chair and shoved toward the door. Ollie leapt up, knocking his own chair over as he attempted to interfere, but Cade grabbed his collar with his spare hand and shoved him in the same direction as Travis. Both men came up swinging, but Cade already had the door open, and with the kick of his boot and a block from his shoulder, he shoved them out into the pouring rain and slammed the door after them. Roy came to the door of his cubicle to investigate the commotion. Lily stared at Cade's calm features for a second, then in an explosion of rage, slammed out of the room in the direction of her chambers. Cade pointed his finger at Roy, sending him scurrying back to bed. Tankard in hand, Ephraim looked up from the table at the young giant standing in the room's center, water streaming from his soaked clothing as he visibly forced his fists to unclench in the sudden emptiness of the room. The older man shook his head and took a sip of his steaming drink. "You certainly do know how to empty a room," Ephraim commented to the house at large. Surveying the havoc he had wreaked, the overturned chairs and spilled plates, the tracks of mud across clean planked floors, the condemning silence of closed doors, Cade reached for a plate and the hot stew kept warming by the fire for him. Without a word, he filled his plate, sat down across from the old man, and began to eat. Ephraim raised his shaggy eyebrows, took a drink, and hid his grin in his cup. It didn't seem like the rest of his company was going to return any too soon. It looked like he'd better learn to get along with this one. Generously,

Who's that?" Playing an old game, Roy pointed at Juanita. Serena grinned and raced to plant a kiss on Juanita's cheek. "'Nita!" she cried triumphantly. Juanita pointed her toward Lily. "Quien es?" "Mama and baby!" Serena climbed into Lily's lap for a hug. As Cade bent his large form beneath the flap to join them, Lily pointed in his direction. "What's his name?" "Papa-padre-daddy," she crowed, laughing as Cade lifted her and sat down with her in his lap. She liked having several names for everything and everyone, and could chatter incessantly in two languages. Cade pointed at an unshaven Travis who glared blearily at their laughter as he untangled himself from his damp bedroll. "Que esta?" Unaware of the Spanish niceties as to being addressed as a "what" instead of "who," Travis glared at their cheerfulness until Serena flung herself at him and hugged his neck. "Snake-oil man!" she cried. Laughter erupted all around—despite the dreary rain, despite their fear and weariness. Welcome waves of amusement relieved some of the tension. Travis growled and tickled Serena until she ran to Roy for help, then grinning, he met Cade's eyes. "Can't you teach her something else to call me?" "Tio Travis?" Cade suggested. "Tio, tio!" Serena cried, sticking her tongue out at Travis and hiding behind Roy's back. "Why do I get the feeling that means 'snake oil' in Spanish?" Travis muttered, reaching for the tin cup of coffee Juanita offered him. "It means 'uncle.' Whether you know it or not, you've just adopted a niece. That means you get to carry her today." Cade took his cup and settled back cross-legged beside Lily. "I don't think I'm ready for the responsibilities of a family man. I'm not even certain how I got into this." Travis threw Lily a wry look. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know." "Look who's talking." Undisturbed, Lily called Serena to come eat her breakfast. She had spent eight years raising Travis's son. It was time he took on a little responsibility. Travis shrugged his shoulders, unabashed. "You could have had a smart, good-looking man like myself and you chose that man-mountain over there. You lost your chance, Lily." Lily didn't need to reply to that. She merely looked at his rumpled curls and beard-stubbled face and grinned. Relieved that she could still find humor in the midst of her grief, Cade finished his food and leaned over to kiss her before rising to finish packing the horses. Lily watched him go with astonishment. Cade never made public displays of affection. Their

Before she realized what he meant to do, Cade was on his horse, towing the mule while riding at right angles away from the road and the army on the move. The rain had let up and the air was warm, and Cade wore only the white full-sleeved shirt and tight trousers he had worn every day since they had left. The shirt was open halfway down his copper chest and accented by a bright-red sash at his waist that held his knife. Lily thought he looked a pirate or worse, but the soldiers striking out after him weren't reaching for their weapons. "He looks like a damned Spaniard," Travis whispered at Lily's side. "How does he do that?" With years of practice and an Indian talent for deception—but Lily didn't say that out loud. She was gradually learning that Cade was like a chameleon, able to blend in with his surroundings for safety. She didn't like to think of the child he must have been to grow up that way, but it certainly helped to survive in this chaos that was Texas. Lily

Elegy" Wind buffs the waterstained stone cupids and shakes Old rain from the pines’ low branches, small change Spilling over the graves the years have smashed With a hammer— forget this, forget that, leave no Stone unturned. The grass grows high, sweet-smelling, Many-footed, ever-running. No one tends it. No One comes....And where am I now?.... Is this a beginning, A middle, or an end?.... Before I knew you I stood middle, or an end?.... Before I knew you I stood In this place. Now I forsake the past as I knew it To feed you into it. But that is not right. You step Into it. I find you here, in the shifting grass, In the late light, as if you had always been here. Behind you two torn black cedars flame white Against the darkening fields.... If you turn to me, Quiet man? If you turn? If I speak softly? If I say, Take off, take off your glasses.... Let me see Your sightless eyes?.... I will be beautiful then.... Look, the heart moves as the moths do, scuttering Like a child’s thoughts above this broken stone And that. And I lie down. I lie down in the long grass, Something I am not given to doing, and I feel The weight of your hand on my belly, and the wind Parts the grasses, and the distance spills through— The glassy fields, the black black earth, the pale air Streaming headlong toward the abbey’s far stones And streaming back again.... The drowned scent of lilacs By the abbey, it is a drug. It drives one senseless. It drives one blind. You can cup the enormous lilac cones In your hands— ripened, weightless, and taut— And it is like holding someone’s heart in your hands, Or holding a cloud of moths. I lift them up, my hands. Grave man, bend toward me. Lay your face.... here.... Rest....! took the stalks of the dead wisteria From the glass jar propped against the open grave And put in the shell-shaped yellow wildflowers I picked along the road. I cannot name them. Bread and butter, perhaps. I am not good With names. But nameless you walked toward me And I knew you, a swelling in the heart, A silence in the heart, the wild wind-blown grass Burning— as the sun falls below the earth— Brighter than a bed of lilies struck by snow. — Brigit Pegeen Kelly, The Orchard: Poems (BOA Editions Ltd., 2004)

Caleb stood on the Tibbet porch, gazing after Lily through the thin veil of rain sliding down from the porch roof. He’d been employing the tactics the colonel had recommended, and he’d liked the results—until he’d noticed Lily leaving the house with Corporal Pierce. When he’d seen her take that green kid’s arm and look up at him as though he’d just cured all the ills of humanity in a single sentence, Caleb had wanted to vault over the porch railing and run after them, shouting protests like a fool. He ached, knowing Lily wouldn’t have made such a familiar gesture with him, even after all they’d been to each other. Saddened,

I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” he said in a dangerous drawl, “and you just gave me the excuse I needed.” “What—what are you talking about?” Lily demanded, stepping backwards. A drop of rainwater from the leaky roof landed with a disconcerting ker-plop on the top of her head. Caleb was unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m talking,” he replied evenly, “about raising blisters on your sweet little backside.” Lily was careful to keep to the opposite side of the table. “Now, Caleb, that wouldn’t be wise.” “Oh, I think it would be about the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Caleb answered, advancing on her again. Lily kept the table between them. “I might be pregnant!” she reasoned desperately. “Then again,” Caleb countered, “you might not.” The muscles of his forearms were corded, the skin covered with maple-sugar hair. “I wasn’t going to shoot you—I only wanted to scare you away.” Lily dodged him, moving from one side of the table to the other, always keeping it between them. “Caleb, be reasonable. I wouldn’t shoot you—I love you!” “I love you, too,” Caleb returned in a furious croon, “and right now I’d like nothing better than to shoot you!” Lily picked up a chair and held it as she’d seen a lion tamer do in an illustration in one of her beloved dime novels. Helga of the Circus, if she remembered correctly. “Now, just stay back, Caleb. If you lay a hand on me, I assure you, you’ll regret it!” “I doubt that very much,” Caleb replied. And then he gripped one leg of the chair, and Lily realized what a pitiful defense it had been. He set it easily on the floor even as his other arm shot out like a coiled snake and caught Lily firmly by the wrist. Like a man sitting down to a cigar and a glass of port after a good dinner Caleb dropped comfortably into the chair. With a single tug he brought Lily facedown across his lap. Quick as mercury he had her skirts up and her drawers down, and when she struggled he simply imprisoned her between his thighs scissor fashion. “Caleb Halliday,” Lily gasped, writhing between his legs, “you let me go this instant!” “Or else you’ll do what?” he asked evenly. Lily felt his hand caress one cheek of her bottom and then the other, as though charting them for assault. “I’ll scream, and Hank Robbins will run over here and shoot you for the rascal you are!” Caleb laughed thunderously at that. “You’ve had your little joke,” Lily huffed, “now let me up!” “No,” Caleb replied. Lily threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could. “You can do better than that,” Caleb said. “Hell, nobody would hear a whimper like that in this rain.” Lily filled her lungs to capacity and screamed again. She was as surprised as Caleb when the door flew open and Velvet burst in, ready for battle. Color filled her face when she understood the situation. In no particular rush, Caleb released Lily, and she scrambled to her feet unassisted, blushing painfully as she righted her drawers and lowered her skirts. Caleb chuckled at her indignation and then stood up respectfully.

I hope it won’t rain,” Lily said, feeling very shy all of a sudden. Caleb turned and smiled at her. “Whatever happens, Lily,” he said, “I’ll take care of you.” Soon

He smells like rain, or like freshly cut grass—the first snow of the year. Like something I’d always known existed, even before we’d met. It was like coming home.

Closing her eyes, she sat perfectly still, listening to the tap-tap-tapping of the rain as it landed on the aluminum carport that sheltered her. Slowly her body relaxed as the melodic beat began to lull her. She allowed herself the luxury to just take a moment and simply…be. Lily loved rain. She loved the sound, the smell, the feeling it gave her of a fresh start. Every time it rained, she felt as though it was a cleansing, cathartic experience. A new beginning. The old was washed away and there was a clean slate.

It’s just the kind of story he likes, about people getting their comeuppance. In my father’s culture there is no room for self-righteousness or even earnestness. To take something seriously is to be a fool. It has to be all irony, disdain, and mockery. Passion is allowed only for athletics. Achievements off the court or playing field open the achiever up to ridicule. Achievement in any realm other than sports is a tell-tale sign of having taken something seriously.

The Gloriosa Superba is native to South India. During the autumn rains you find it shooting in the lane bordered thickly by huge cactus and aloe. Here and there you see it in the open field. In the field it will have a chance, you think; but in the lane, crowded down by cactus and aloe, great assertive things with most fierce thorn and spike, what can a poor lily do but give in and disappear? A few weeks afterward you see a punch of color on the field, you go and gather handfuls of lovely lilies, and your revel in the tangle of color, a little bewilderment of delight.

Nan felt the lesson like a sudden rain. Lily would, now; of course she would. Every right action begets another; every extension of a hand forms a rope and then a ladder.

A sudden wind blows through the cellar, bringing with it the sweet smell of rain on dry earth.

I lied a little. There are things I don’t want to tell you. How lonely I am today and sick at heart. How the rain falls steadily and cold on a garden grown greener, more lush and even less tame. I haven’t done much, I confess, to contain it. The grapevine, as usual, threatens everything in its path, while the raspberry canes, aggressive and abundant, are clearly out of control. I’m afraid the wildflowers have taken over, being after all the most hardy and tolerant of shade and neglect. This year the violets and lilies of the valley are rampant, while the phlox are about to emit their shocking pink perfume. Oh, my dear, had you been here this spring, you would have seen how the bleeding hearts are thriving. — Madelon Sprengnether, The Angel of Duluth: Prose Poems. (White Pine Press; First Edition edition May 1, 2006)

This time, however, things have changed. My tolerance for her is at an all time low. Three years without being this close to her has brought me into a drought. I'm the cactus, and she's a summer rain. I've gone three years without a taste of water, and now I'm powerless against it.

Now let the song begin! Let us sing together Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather, Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather, Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather, Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water: Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!

A smile dawns on his face, and I swoop down to kiss his lips as they part, and I swear I can savor the sweetness of everything that he is on them. He’s the first taste of coffee in the morning, the smell of rain on dry earth, the lights on a Christmas tree, and the sea wind in my face as I walk along the beach.

Sometimes a Light Surprises Sometimes a light surprises The Christian while he sings; It is the Lord, who rises With healing in His wings: When comforts are declining, He grants the soul again A season of clear shining, To cheer it after rain. In holy contemplation, We sweetly then pursue The theme of God’s salvation, And find it ever new: Set free from present sorrow, We cheerfully can say, E’en let the unknown morrow Bring with it what it may. It can bring with it nothing, But He will bear us through; Who gives the lilies clothing, Will clothe His people too: Beneath the spreading heavens, No creature but is fed; And He who feeds the ravens Will give His children bread. WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800

What is it?" I asked. "Rain," she said. "It's too early for rain." "That's what you think. Open the door. You'll see." I turned off the air conditioner so that we could hear better, slid open the glass door -- and the soft thunder of rain falling onto sand curtained us in. Deaf, we would still have known it was raining: smell would have told us; the smell of dry earth watered, of dehydrated vegetation reconstituted, the smell of resurrection. The first rain in a dry land! It smells better than lilies in July, or the ocean, or the wind in sun-warmed pines, or the irrigated patch of alfalfa you reach after a long haul through dry hills. It is hard to smell that sweetness and believe in death.

Do you rememberin’ Assumption, Calixta?” he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now well, now her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts. They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world. The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached. When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life’s mystery. He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders. The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.

She’s wearing my hoodie, the one I gave her the day she was soaked from the rain. Fuck. There’s something about seeing her in my clothes that does something to me.

If the ocean is a body and the river is a body, then the groundwater is a body, too. The body no one sees. It lies in wait beneath the surface, rising through the cracks and crevices, filtering up and up and up until the limestone above is full and wet. This body sprawls, buried. Sleeping but not. Hidden but not. So deep beneath the earth that it stretches under the ocean floor, so close to the surface that it can tickle the sky when it rains.

January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow. February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again. March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil. April brings out the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet. May brings flock of pretty lambs, Skipping by their fleecy dams, June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies. Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers. August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne. Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot. Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant. Dull November brings the blast; Then the leaves are whirling fast. Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

The Technique of the Lifelike I had imagined death thrillingly: my arms held behind to restrain their frivolous occasions, the whole of me bending like a tall yellow lily before you. Yet set see how my hands go on with their thoughts. See how I fold and fold my handkerchief. I am not a great lady. I don't swoon with love. My stricken, I cannot render you as you move quickly toward your skillful execution, your shoulders tossing their indifference to the dark, your face overlaid with stage effects. You grow irresistibly small. Your hands and feet expire. This is where sculpture also fails, this is where I turn wholly unattached and without debt. What is the use of crowning you in glory? Now my fingers make bowls for rain: in your honor: hope for nothing. We knew our disposition long ago.

On either side of the laneway, rain-soaked bushes burst into a flurry of white flowers. Alice's first breaths were filled with lightning and the scent of storm lilies in bloom. You were the true love I needed to wake me from a curse, Bun, her mother would say to finish the story. You're my fairytale.

I drank Datura inoxia and traveled with the black panther to find the antidote." "And you saw the energy lines of the trees." "How do you know?" "Because I know." "I smelled the lily of the valley, up close, but the scent of your skin is still sweeter." "Not as sweet as yours." "I danced with a rattlesnake." "There are many of those in life." "And then, under a flash of lightning, a tree caught fire and I found the bromeliad with no name." "How strange that a tree caught fire in the rain forest. It's very wet in there." "I found the plant of passion. The tenth plant." "You found it with your passion. You set the tree on fire with your passion." "I love you." "I love you, too," he said. "And that is the story of us." "It is." "It's true, then, whoever finds the nine plants really does find what they desire." "It's true." "Let's say them together." We began. "Moonflower, gloxinia, cycad, Theobroma cacao, mandrake, chicory, sinsemilla, Datura inoxia, lily of the valley, and the tenth plant. The bromeliad. The passion plant with no name.

Her scent was so embedded in his skin, through his flesh right down to his bones, that if he lived a million years, he’d never be rid of the need to find the woman who smelled like wildflowers and rain and who now owned a piece of his heart.

Freeze Frame, with Forsynthia You will bind me in my aquarelle, my skin blue as Canterbury bells. Call me mademoiselle before you execute, like the hand- tinted photo of the dancer, Margarete Gertrude Zelle, arms scissoring the air, fending bullets and flowers as she pirouettes. You will find me in the zero hour sipping a whiskey sour with a cherry, my hair yellow, not sallowed or frizzed like the Bishop's flower. In a bell-shaped dress trimmed in snow-white florets, I smell of fever, soil as I pose in the doorcase. You refer to me as daughter of gnawed bones I am property of _______. A profile in the slanted rain. I am versatile. You call me Lily of the Nile, fingering umbels as you scour the floor in search of my shadow. Hours sift and flow and form a canted frame where you lean one elbow statuesque as a window sash. You've captured me, you say, mid-bloom, in your eye frame, in the process of photograph and pose and polyphonic prose, the kitchen lit by my ante- bellum skirt, the yellow spikes of forsythia going up in flame. Simone Muench, Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum. (New Michigan Press 2003)

I imagine white florals. Lily of the valley and creamy magnolia, a dewy morning after a spring rain.

I hoped for a rose and got lilies. I hoped for the sun and got rain. I hoped for a cat and got puppies. I hoped for Brazil and got Spain. I hoped for a raise and got transferred. I hoped for northwest and got south. I hoped for ice cream and got yogurt. I hoped for a kiss on the mouth. I hoped for more time and got late fees. I hoped for a cruise, got a flight. I hoped for Poseidon, got Hades. I hoped for long days over nights. You may wonder why I keep hoping, As fruitless as it seems to be. But hope is a bow, not an arrow. Its release depends much upon me.