Photo credit: Robert Knox

Daylilies have their days. 
The color deeper this year, 
or simply my imagination, dialed up a notch
after drought and disappointment,
short-changed by seasons with no deference 
to sunshine soldiers or checkbook patrons
of blooming expectations 

Daylilies declare their days. 
Is the statement bolder this year, or simply my imagination 
	that we have given time,
and given devotion, and been disappointed,
	if not deceived,
short-changed by judges of no justice,
in seasons as in life?

Yet now each bold blossom lifts its dynastic pigmentation 
	to the sky,
crowned royally for a day, 
then steps away,
yielding place to her sibling under the sun,
as if in a gesture of family loyalty and love,
or deference perhaps to Emerson’s salute 
to those “Daughters of Time”

Try as we might, we cannot hold on to what these sunshine soldiers
	must sacrifice to be themselves,
without remorse or complaint 
to that implacable judge bearing time-piece and scissors 

We cannot preserve them,
	save them, store them up
Nor can they climb their way to the top
in bouquets of summer days, 
twined into seasons of fervent rapture, 
	shadowed love,
and gathered to our breast,
but steadfast ever shed their hours and drift away

Each bows and steps aside,
makes space for a birth-mate, 
a lover, a simulacrum,
both loving and beloved, the way it ought to be,
for flowers and ourselves.
I cling to the days,
saddened by their winding down,
lose purchase on their golden truth
Each season ascends but to a day, 
designs a fitting offering

Something new, complete, a day’s perfection 
Something to grow on
Each day as beautiful as the one before
                        

Photo credit: Robert Knox

White Shasta,
we feared to have seen the last of you
Summer drought, followed by a thirsty winter,
no snow, two killing frosts
No smiling faces gleaming in spring’s portfolio,
a familiar visage erased from the group photo,
the season’s old gang gathered for a pose: Look happy, guys!
Prominent in the mash-up of the wild raspberry huddle
years on sunny end, we took you for granted.
You took us by surprise:
White smiles beaming about a buttery button-nose

But look, reformulated in a new esplanade, 
good as new, possibly better,
a reunited chorus singing a familiar song, 
a seasonal assurance: Everything is Looking Up! 

I hide the evidence on the credit card,
the garden god a merciful restorationist
No one need know the handy sleight of your resurrection