If these yellow daylilies
made the sound suggested by their anatomy
we couldn’t have them in the garden—
great gold horns
on stems that would support them,
like some stage mother, on a world tour.
But they’re rooted here in the red clay,
noisy only by virtue of their color
and posture, that desperate leaning away
from the leaves, that sun hunger.

Perhaps they know they have only one day.
One cool morning, a wind off the lake,
and one noon under a sun
that returns the most ardent affection.
One evening watching the shadows
of the porch spindles lengthen without tangling,
and the day is done. A day
that might have been worse or better,
that was never ours alone
though it seemed so.