When I walk into the forest, I'm prepared to enjoy it all.
The seeming, obscured bird is sitting on a branch just out of reach.
The clearing that suggests that someone must have lived here.
Then there are the lilies, tell-tale signs of the handiwork of human beings.
At least, that is what I believe anyway.
In seeing lilies, I'm convinced that this was a home to someone.
They're gone now, but their lilies remain.
Just as it is when one takes the time to do a good deed,
the act may soon be forgotten, but the recipient of your kindness
will always remember how you made them feel.
Then there's a reflection on life and living itself.
Who are the people that once lived here?
Who planted these flowers?
Could they have known that these beautiful flowers would return each spring
in honor of souls a long time passing?
Then I think about the young ones, playful and plain,
as they fail to see their own mortality.
Then I also think about the middle-aged occupants,
as they spend time evaluating their own purpose of life.
Then the aged, the old folks facing the inevitable,
crippling disease and then death.
I look at the lilies knowing that a family might have loved here,
how often do you stop and check your own thoughts?
Not literally, of course, but figuratively,
stop and check how truly fortunate you are.
I do, and I do so very often.
I see life and the passing of life around me,
and I'm reminded how truly fragile like this,
but how lasting kindness and good deeds can be,
just like these lilies.
