he could tell which flower would bloom first
in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter
but he could still tell
to explain, let’s go back in time
before we lost the wrinkled quiet man
my father, dad, or to most, brother Fred
can’t rightly tell when it started, yet
we know it started with a potted gift
that he’d seen at my sister’s neighbor’s
a yellow night-blooming primrose
the magic flowers as he called them
(or maybe I dreamed he named them that)
anyway, he was in utter awe
not just cause they bloomed each evening
but that said blooms opened so quickly,
a breathtaking act of nature
as accomplished as any ballet
with the reckless speed of a TV show
a true blink and you’d miss it spectacle, so
once they’d spread around the house
he’d ask, what time is it, and if past eight
he’d head out to the porch
to get a bead on the impending blooms
each somewhat conical bud open a bit
to show protrusions of yellow, those
soon to be flowers wrapped in green casing
tongue-like tabs of a petal showing first
these he knew would be opening
he’d eyeball each one
see that one bulging a bit, almost ready
look at the base of that one
see where it’s starting to split, it might be
just might be first
that one over there, could be second
then this other one, he’d point
it’s split further, the casing ready to pop off
which would unveil tightly curled petals to
open right before our eyes
yep, that’ll be the first
and he was most always right
in truth, whether he was or not, well
those nights I was privileged
to witness the flower show with him
well, that was the real
magic