The dying of the light

Lilies at night.

"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever."

-- Dylan Thomas


"Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

-- Dylan Thomas


Five days ago when I brought these lilies home their buds were hard, closed, as green as their leaves. Fearing that they might not open at all, I took a chance on them. The weather was cold, the days were grey and each one shorter than the last. The lilies kept their secret tightly furled; if they flowered, I had no idea what color they might be.

My intention was to make a drawing each day, to trace the spreading beauty of petals as they opened to the air. I placed the stems in tepid water; I moved the vase in front of a window. For a few days, nothing happened, not to them, not to me.

On the third morning I awoke to splashes of yellow stars. Even the buds that remained closed were lightening and brightening in hue. I had missed the moment. The force that through the green fuse drives the flower was driving my lilies toward their fulfillment and their end.

Tonight they have arrived at their moment of perfect freshness. By tomorrow they will begin to turn from the height of their glory, running out of steam, fading and shriveling and browning at the tips. And still I have not drawn them.

The days have turned mild, sunny, and heartbreakingly beautiful with the rust and gold of autumn thrusting against a flawless blue sky. All of nature is conspiring to encourage a final flowering. May it be so for me. May it be so for you. May we not run out of steam before our frail deeds dance.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


STEAM is the challenge topic.

(Tilted, cropped, variously adjusted and fiddled with in iPhoto.)