Swans, Swings, and Lilies

Not all writing needs a point. Throughout my recent experiences, these three things have stood out to me: the grace of swans, the peace of swings, and the beauty of lilies. Together, they make a Setting--a scene where things could happen, or where life might grow. Therefore, I will write.
While sitting on my grandmother's couch, I looked to my left. On the table, there were three wooden swans. Their necks twisted in a frozen dance. It made me think of the first aspect of the Setting: the once unbroken surface of a glassy pond that now ripples with three snow-white swans that glide across the water towards the bank from which one watches them. That one could be you. I pictured me.
On my walk this morning, I saw a wooden swing hanging from two strong yet worn ropes. It hung from the boughs of a massive oak, or maple, or some tree that could bear the weight of peace. Let us now put that swing in our Setting--it is the seat from which one watches the swans, beneath the canopy of that tree. Be it you or me that sits, our Setting above the vivid grass by that pond of glass with three white swans and a swing is almost complete. We lack only the lilies.
I once thought only tiger lilies were my favorite flower. But having recently opened my eyes to the number of different sorts of lilies there are, and how wonderful yet mischievous they look, I've decided that yes, tiger lilies remain my favorite, but only as a part of a bigger category of flower. There are those stripped orange lilies--the ones called tigers. But I saw another lily yesterday that was a mix between orange and red and brown and pink (if you can imagine), and it had black spots. I called it the cheetah-lily. It looked like it wanted to eat me, and I thanked it for its hunger--it made it look all the more lively. It smiled at my thanks and let me pass on the condition that I keep its image in my head and put it in a picture. So here's the picture:
Sitting on a swing that hangs from the branch of an old and wise tree (whose identity is irrelevant), you look through the overgrown tiger and cheetah-lilies that grace the water's edge. Sailing through the water like three clipper ships, the swans make their way towards the shore, their necks acting as the white masts, their feet as the ambitious rutters of direction. They make for the bank of lilies on which you gently sway in your chair with no legs. What happens when they get there is something I have not yet imagined. I'll leave that up to you. If I were in that swing, though, I think I would listen for the words of the three swans. They might have more to say than either you or I could think up on our own.