My dad helped us transplant
daylilies he’d been raising for years 
into our front garden.

He said that they were good flowers 
for brown-thumbed people,
that they’d take care of themselves
if set up right.

My wife and I eagerly awaited
the bloom of bulbs we had tended.
And waited.  And waited

like impatient children as they
slowly gathered strength and pushed leaves out,
and grew stalks and buds
that opened into glorious colors.

The garden, a riot of fireworks,
each one popping open and withering
within a day,

each one thankful for its
time to shine.