The lotus flowers at Tianlu Lake in Taizhou hold the summer poetry and millennia of tenderness of a city.

When the morning breeze carrying moisture brushed past, I was standing on the wooden boardwalk of Tianlu Lake Park. Before me, lotus leaves spread thicker than clouds, while pink-white blossoms emerged from the green waves—some half-curled like freshly opened letters, others fully bloomed with petals glowing at the edges as if kissed by the sun. The wind rustled through, making the leaves rustle like pages being turned, startling dragonflies hidden beneath them. Their blue-green wings glinted as they skimmed the water, their ripples catching the shadows of falling lotus petals. Walking along the lake, I realized the water held Taizhou’s secrets. The name "Tianlu" wasn’t arbitrary—it refers to a mythical auspicious beast from ancient legends, carved into the city’s old brick walls and painted on ancient bridge railings, a symbol of prayers for favorable weather. When the lake was dug, water from the ancient canal was channeled into its new curves, allowing millennia-old currents to nourish the lotus roots. Locals say these flowers bloom longer than elsewhere because their roots drink from waters steeped in history. Sitting on a stone bench by the water, I suddenly understood why ancient poets loved writing about lotuses. During the Northern Song Dynasty, Taizhou’s governor Fan Zhongyan, while overseeing the Xixi salt granary, wrote of "turbid waves endlessly surging east," yet upon seeing pond lotuses, he penned, "Fragrance falls with dewdrops, shadows sway in emerald ripples." Perhaps the lotuses then, like now, grew in serene elegance by the water, offering even a busy governor a moment of respite. Later, Taizhou’s literati grew fonder of lotuses. Zheng Banqiao, painting them, said, "Simplify like autumn trees, innovate like spring blooms." His lotus stems, lean yet resilient, mirrored Taizhou’s people—gentle on the surface but unyielding at heart, much like the flowers stretching skyward from the water. At noon, sunlight glazed the lake, and dewdrops rolled like unstrung pearls on the leaves. An elderly man sat on a folding stool under willow shade, fanning himself, saying the lotuses would bloom until Mid-Autumn. "Before this park, we admired them along the moat," he said, pointing at distant high-rises. "That was rice fields. Now it’s buildings, but the lake remembers—the lotuses bloom as vibrantly as ever." His "as ever" likely meant decades ago, when Taizhou’s people planted lotuses by the canal, sold lotus seed pods in summer markets, dried the bitter seeds for tea, and steamed sticky rice in lotus leaves, filling the air with bittersweet fragrance. Resting in a pavilion, I watched hanfu-clad girls photographing the flowers with round fans, their skirts rustling grass and startling grasshoppers. I recalled the *Taizhou Chronicles* noting how Ming and Qing dynasties’ wealthy families cultivated lotuses, hosting summer feasts by ponds, using leaves as cups for chilled rice wine—"the aroma of wine and lotus intoxicating half the street." Though no lotus cups remain today, sipping chilled plum tea amid the blossoms evoked a similar joy. Time changes, but Taizhou’s love for lotuses lingers in the lake and the smiles of admirers. Leaving, I glanced back. Sunset dyed the lotuses gold-red, their reflections wavering like an unfinished painting. These flowers aren’t just blossoms—they’re Taizhou’s life woven into poetry, the ancient canal’s flow through modern days, every leaf whispering: *Take your time. This summer is worth savoring.*