It was the scent
that drew me there
to the edge of the woods,
the heavy sweetness
of lily of the valley.
And at the edge
of the trees,
I found them,
tiny white umbels,
crenellated bells,
close to the dark,
dank earth.
And then the deep purple
of wild violets—
I followed their fan-like faces
into the shade,
moving from one bunch
to another, gathering
a small bouquet—and then
trilliums! Trilliums!
The thick cream of their petals.
rising above the whorl
of three green leaves. Trilliums!
I knew not to pick—
my mother had taught me
to honor them.
So I sat beside
the white blossoms
before looking up.
Trees. Trees. More trees.
No path. No field. No edge
of the lake. No sense
of how I had come.
I remember I slowly stood
and turned. And turned.
So very alone.
So much beauty still clutched
in my hand. So much darkness
all around. And how did I get there?
And what should I do? I remember
the scent of the lilies. I remember
not wanting to be found.