Poetry Series: “the daylily / three”
You fooled me. Your ability to
thrive without needing the
tending that I imagined. If
constancy is not a word,
ceaseless is. An immutable
death at the onset of a dusky
night, sky hues like worn iron.
And you return each morning
pouting orange in defiance
until late August or until the
saddest month, September. A
pruning then. With a sharp
trowel or a flat-head spade at
your roots if needed. Shears at
the wilted mat of leaves heavy
with tans and browns of
retreating chlorophyll. I am
here for you.