I woke to see tigridias outside
my bedroom door: two perfect painted flowers.
They bent beneath the heat and would have died,
except I took them in to cup the hours
of a Saturday in late July.
It didn’t matter that I severed them.
Their limpid petals stood and charmed my eye
from early morning until 5 pm.

Here’s yellow spattered in a crimson cup,
magenta flowing on a field of cream:
two triple lobes until they’re folded up
like silken ribbon wrapped around a dream
of summer – fleet and hot and passing bright –
that flowers hold, who never breathe at night.