The Lily of the Valley
**The Lily of the Valley**
Beneath the shade of ancient olive trees,
I used to walk the fields of morning dew,
And find the bells of white upon my knees,
That gleamed like stars against a field of blue,
The lily of the valley, born anew.
I learned the name my grandmother had taught,
That every tiny bloom concealed a prayer,
A fragrance soft as silk could not be bought,
But given freely, drifting through the air,
A sacred gift for those who chose to care.
I pressed my fingers gently to the stem,
And felt the coolness of the morning light,
As though the earth itself had fashioned them
To show that beauty rises from the night,
And fragile things can carry endless might.
The years moved on like rivers to the sea,
Yet still I sought the flowers every spring,
To kneel among them, young again and free,
To hear the wordless song the small bells sing,
And feel the joy that only stillness brings.
Now I grow old beside the familiar hill,
I plant the lilies where my children play,
Their sweetness on the breeze is with me still,
A thread of white that weaves through every day,
Some gifts, like love, do not fade away.
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