Luke MacKenzie

a grace of lilies

Consider the lilies of the field, says their Maker.

I tell you, not even Solomon

in his glory

was clothed like one of these. 

This I consider as I smell the rich pollen

which falls thick as snowdrifts on the dining room table.

There was only one Solomon.

There have been thirty million lilies,

or maybe thirty billion, who knows?

Seven of them sit on my table,

gifts of the field and its Maker,

who has seen to it

that my dining room table

is arrayed more finely

than Solomon in all his glory.

Tell me, what am I to call this

except grace?