Considering Lilies

Eileen Earhart Oldag

The locals are sego, a mariposa once tender to the tongues of Paiute, Bannock, Shoshone. Three, moon-hued petals and an open throat, maroon, filled with silent syllables of golden pollen.

Tired of plague, we drive to Horseshoe Bend, buy pie, ride on. The road will narrow, climb toward the simple house on the hill’s brow, so we stop. It’s breezy, the air

a sweet breath, a balm. Below us, the river bending back to itself. Around, the hill rolling with perennials. Short grass and segos nodding and rising, acknowledging the wind and us, briefly as we are.