The photo is mine, the poem belongs to Rosanna Warren
For six days, full-throated, they praised the light with speckled tongues and blare of silence by the porch stair: honor guard with blazons and trumpets raised still heralding the steps of those who have not for years walked here but who once, pausing, chose this slope for a throng of lilies: and hacked with mattock, pitching stones and clods aside to tamp dense clumps of bog-soil for new roots to seize. So lilies tongued the brassy air and cast it back in the sun's wide hearing. So, the pair who planted the bulbs stood and heard that clarion silence. We've heard it, standing here toward sunset as those gaping, burnished corollas poured their flourish. But the petals have shrivelled, from each crumpled knot droops a tangle of rough notes shrunk to a caul of music. Extend your palms: you could as well cup sunbeams as pour brim-full again those absent flowers, or touch the quick arms of those who bent here, trowel in hand, and scraped and sifted soil held in a bed of stone.