Distracted by Calla Lilies

Six, white Calla Lilies sit in a drinking glass on my kitchen table. A ribbon tied loosely 'round their thick stalks in a half-hearted effort to create a casually 'artistic' arrangement. They are the, oh-so-pretty, souvenir of my fourth walk down the aisle. As a bridesmaid.

I hope they survive for a while, because they are tragically beautiful. Or beautifully tragic, perhaps.

They seem to know that they're doomed to whither in the house of an 'always a bridesmaid....' who doesn't even own a proper vase. What a tragically beautiful fate for an 'oh-so-pretty' bunch of Calla Lilies.

I adore Calla Lilies. Truly. Adore. If I could dare to pick a 'most favorite' flower, I might be inclined to choose them for their exceeding sensuality and graceful, feminine curves. For some reason, the sight of a Calla Lily always brings to mind a poem by Lucille Clifton called Homage to My Hips-- which is probably a silly connection, but one that, most likely, stems (HA...'stems') from my mind's tendency to liken the curve of a Calla Lily to the curve of a woman's hip.

...there is a girl inside/she is randy as a wolf/she will not walk away/and leave these bones/to an old woman...

I didn't intend to write a homage to Calla Lilies-- or hips, for that matter--but here I am, 3.5 paragraphs in, and that's all I've done.

Perhaps, I'll go with it.

...and her lovers will harvest/honey and thyme/and the woods will be wild/with the damn wonder of it.

On second thought, I think I'll leave it at that.