1.
In soft rain, we walked along the path under huge cedars and firs, a raven sounding a hollow call near the water, klook, klook, klook, near the water where the lilies were blooming. I was a child again, climbing over Moss Rocks to school near Easter, careful not to step on shooting stars, blue camas, and the small creamy white petals of the fawn lilies on delicate stems above the mottled leaves.
2.
I was a child again, riding my blue bike to Beacon Hill Park along the curve of Dallas Road, the sea we couldn’t swim in, sewage pouring into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I found condoms on the beach there, thinking them balloons, and was smacked by my mother for trying to inflate one. A child riding to Beacon Hill Park, its meadows blue with camas, white with the lilies, peacocks shrieking above the wind. I heard them in my sleep.
3.
In summer we will swim in the bay that is hung with mist. Small boys love the shore for the starfish, the crabs under rocks, the anemones pulsing in the tidepools. Looking up from the water, I’ll remember the lilies in their damp moss, the decades of seeing them, how the sea rises and falls, rises, falls, generations of ravens in the trees, and the oyster shells on the side of the path.
...Theresa Kishkan 
A lovely gentle musing, Theresa. Here the wind is wild, blowing in a forecast spring snowstorm so your delicate blooms were especially welcome.
It’s cold here too, Susan. New snow on the mountain. But the lilies were blooming and I’m grateful for that!