A golden throated red daylily, color deep as in a turkish rug
had somehow escaped the lips of a roaming deer.
Leaned out from the upright stance of its neighbors,
was in my line of sight as I held my morning cup of tea.
For days I watched for that flower to open
and was rewarded with such color.
There was another bud beside it on its stalk,
promise of a blossom to come, and another stalk
beginning to lean in the same direction.

But sunrise next morning brought truth to the matter.
To escape a deer looking for salad is not a real-world event.
The lily and all the hoped-for to follow were gone,
only forlorn stalks, still leaning, remained.
l remembered the lilies, looked idly each morning
at zinnia, gay feather, last purple stalk of sage.
Then, how did I miss it? the reluctant rosebush
in that same garden showed no sign of wanting to bloom.
l noticed last evening a rose deeply crimson.
Though not the saturated red of the lily, its color is pure,
and after all, it’s a rose, what more should I say?