When heliotrope and bellflower,
columbine and bee balm
rainbow my gardens—their
gowns and ruffles no trick 
of the light—my thoughts
go on pilgrimage to summers
at home and all the colors
that tailored my father’s lilies.
City boy and no born gardener,
his corn barely beat knee high.
But he loved lilies—resurrection
symbol—flowers he could
kneel beside.

Will my lilies, budding now by
our thick-walled stone house
bloom on his birthday again
this year—bloom with his
confidence in rainbow’s
lasting covenant?