Spider lily




I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as bee…brush blooming.

And is it ever.

Heading south from town on Highway 87.

Lots of it.

And all along 783 between 87 and Hilda.

A white riot of bee brush.

Texas sage has joined in the melee.

You can see it all over town.

All purple and glowing.

All because of rain.

And the promise of more.

Which promises surprises.

Such as the spider lily suddenly blooming on the side of the house.

Shockingly white amidst the dark greenery.



And showy at the same time.

A veritable aria amidst basso profundo bushes.

Who knew.

That’s the hidden pleasure of another’s toil.

Reaping the reward of what they sowed.

Basking in the glow, as it were, of another’s labor.

Enjoying a yard with established root systems.

A landscape created by someone else.

Rocks moved here and yon, forming flower beds.

And walkways.

Bricks forming a circle.

Inside it, orange lilies.

And a birdbath.

And the birdfeeder.

Under the pecan tree, a Rose of Sharon arrayed accordingly.

Carolina jessamine climbing the walls.

Crape myrtles.

Echinacea (aka Purple Coneflower) bursting by the greenhouse.

And so many other plants and bushes and blooming things.

Even a peach tree.

All this dug and planted and watered and loved by another.

Time and toil and bags of soil.

Prune and weed and rake and clean.

And then the other moves on.

And another moves in.

Receiving the legacy.

Relishing the unexpected reward.

Of all the hard work already done.

Of another’s gardening dream.

And efforts.

And love and care.

Which is a testament.

Wherever you go, leave something for the next person.

Plant a tree.

Bury bulbs.

Stick sturdy plants into the ground.

Create a garden.

Give it your all.

And in time, it will be time to move on.

That’s Mason.

Renee Walker is a poet, writer, and real estate broker on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster.


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