Life of A Lily

Have you ever seen that painting of the lily pads?
Floating across that clear green surface,
Drifting all alone until their pale petals bump into something else,
A frog perhaps, a dragonfly or another lily friend.
I've imagined nymphs floating on the lilies,
Trailing their soft hands over the petals,
Tending to all that needed it.
The flowers being rubbed and crushed to help and heal,
The smell curling like smoke out of a genie's lamp.
Bare toes are dipped into the water where the lilies reside,
Currents rushing cool and smooth around a calloused foot.
The lilies float, tethered strong and erect to their muddy home,
Ethereal twists of sweetness more beautiful than any of the pastel greenhouses or pretty dresses the ladies have on,
Who cross the bridges and point a silk-gloved hand at the flowers that have been their since 
The beginning of time 
(as the frog knows it, at least.)