Eliza Flanigan ’26 is a Stage Management and Poetry major. When not writing Eliza finds enjoyment in reading Queer Fantasy Romance or working in the theatre.
Rain Lilies
Mama always said I was a raincloud:
A gust of gray in a world of blue,
Soaking everyhting in my path. I was wildm
Unpredictable. Never meant to say, only to stir.
She warned me that people
Would hide from my darkened skies,
Hating how thunder never asked
Before it spoke. They would flinch at flashes
Of lightning, mistaking passion for violence.
I learned to drift in silence, floating
With the leading wind, never against.
I was quiet above rooftops, distant
From those who dreaded me. But clouds
Are meant to burst.
When droplets grew too heavy
I would flood every hallway and shake
Frames from walls. Rooftops
Became bare in my wake
And tree limbs littered the streets.
Mama hated those storms –
Loud, unbecoming, ugly.
What she forgot to say was:
Only a storm can cause a lily to bloom.
The writing process of Rain Lilies began as a deeply personal reflection on being labeled “negative” for most of my life. I wanted to transform that perception into something more nuanced, to show how what others see as darkness can actually hold power, depth, and renewal. The metaphor of the raincloud became my way of reclaiming that narrative and taking the heaviness people associate with me and turning it into a natural, necessary force. As I wrote, I thought about how storms, though feared, bring life and how even destruction has purpose. The poem’s voice grew from that tension between how I’m seen and who I really am: not cruel or hopeless, but passionate, emotional, and alive. The final line, “Only a storm can cause a lily to bloom,” came late in the process, but it felt like the truth I’d been writing toward all along a quiet defiance and acceptance that my intensity has always had meaning.
The Tributary 