Wild Easter Lilies

Under their quilt of fallen frozen leaves, 
The lilies of spring sleep.
The winter's touch is deep;
The woods are dead and silent.
 
In the glacial distant sky,
Ghostly northern lights
Silently wax and wane
Spectres seeking a peaceful resting site.
 
Even the owl is silent
On this night at outer edge of winter.
 
And yet,
Listen!
 
A precocious frog attempts a fragile, weakened call.
 
Ah, spring is still alive and it is waking!
 
Soon the wild Easter lilies of these peaceful, quiet woods
Will emerge from damp and pungent forest floor.
Their dappled leaves like backs of fawns
Will slowly rise from their refuge and grace the woodland clearing.
 
Their blooms will burst forth to adorn
An emerald carpet of reawakening moss.
They'll pleasantly startle any who walk upon the path,
When coming around a bend,
These face a sudden host of white:
Wild Easter lilies, their heads bowing gently,
Swaying in a prayer of thanks
Among the columns of their forest temple,
Tranquil in the muted presence of filtered spring sunlight.
 
Oh God, I pray that I will see the lilies one more time!