Poetry Series: “the daylily / four”
Your dirty hands rifled
through the clumps that
numbered in the dozen. Sifting
through the strident thistle.
You knew how to avoid the
softly sharp barbs, white like
the coarse hairs of a dying
woman, imperceptible except
for the singe of their touch.
That did not stop you. It is
easy to find the tension in the
root. The give. The take. The
pulling and the cutting is
inconceivable as wishing on a
stray eyelash or seeing a
monarch still in November.
Let the day end as it began —
in blue violet.