As I’m sure you already know, the daylily blossom lasts for just a day. Hence, its name. I have many of them doing their thing outside the house, including a very large, showy variety planted next to my front steps by the previous occupant.
I enjoy them but they make me nervous. Why? Because they tend to flower all at once, clusters of buds bursting magnanimously in the morning only to shrivel into limp wrecks of themselves by evening. Timing is everything in the plant kingdom, and our vacations always seem to coincide when the big daylily circus comes to town.
By the time we return from our ventures, there are only a few tell-tale wisps of former glory hanging off the stalks like forgotten banners from a parade long over. The hot July sun has taken its toll.
The daylily reminds me of fleeting summer months, every day unique and unduplicated. It is the cliche that haunts me as I pass out my front door on another errand that will prove meaningless in less than a summer’s day. When I was a child, the season seemed to last forever, but now I can’t keep up the pace of greeting each plant’s crowning achievements in full bloom.
The raucous hoots and calls of an insatiable modern world demand my attention, and I am pulled away from sunlit gardens where bees and dragonflies perform their miraculous acts.
I’d much rather find a seat and bask in the rays of flowers. I don’t want to miss the show.