Only prairie-mornings can be like this – you know its going to be warm, hot even, but it isn't hot yet, and remnants of cool night-air sneak through the clothing onto your skin.

We walked hand in hand, fantasying about half-naked braves, covered with feathers roaming this fast expanse on swift running horses.

Everything was new to us – our new country Canada was, the prairie was, our walk together as man and wife was, for we were only a few weeks married. I had eyes only for Anne, who wore her white skirt with green polka-dots and loosely over it a green bolero with white polka dots. Then we found this beautiful flower, red and gold in color.

“Don't,” Anne said, “maybe its the only flower living here,” as I was about to pick it for her. I left it and when recently I found a single tiger-lily at my home of Menno Place, I remembered.

Most everything has changed, we left the prairies long ago, and Anne, whose young hand I held in mine lives on in my dreams now, but the lily I found here is as beautiful as the one we found in the prairie – the one we found together.