Lilies

(The following poem needs a great deal of work; the painting also needs to be re-done--I've only painted one other "flower painting." Blooms are very difficult--I've seen some gorgeous pastel paintings of flowers; this is not one of them. Ahhhh....something else to aspire to. (Good thing we can laugh at ourselves, eh?)  The other thing I should say, in case anyone else reads this . . . the poem is purely fictional.)

The day the lilies bloomed was one year to the day
     my sister died.
There were three of us--my mom, my sister and me--
just as there were lilies, pink and lavender.
Three.
But my sister had some troubles--we never knew just what
and that morning, mom called up to wake her,
but silence was all she got.
Mom went upstairs, banged on her door,
but not a sound, not a word
came from behind my sister's door.
When Mom went in, it was her screams that I heard.

There was no note. No reason that we knew
for why my sister did
what my sister felt she had to do.
If it had been a sniper, some teen-age discontent,
we at least could believe that she'd been happy,
that her soul had been at peace, even if it wasn't true.

But she's gone, without a legacy
except the lilies by the door
They've never bloomed before.
I wonder . . . I can't help it . . . next year . . .
Will there be any more?