In Ireland and elsewhere, the Lily is a symbol of Easter, being associated with new life and a pure offering to God. In this simple poem, Mary Oliver sees the flower as silently following night and day, darkness and light, the up's and down's of life, trusting, knowing that the dawn will follow the night.
This trust is the perfect attitude, the perfect prayer, the attitude we try to cultivate in sitting.
Night after night
darkness enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse of honey,
and its fragrance,
and is content to stand there
in the garden, not quite sleeping,
and, maybe, saying in lily language
some small words we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips are so secret,
its tongue is so hidden –
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?
Mary Oliver, The Lily
