One daylily bud
remains unbloomed.  The two months' pageant 
of haughty scarlet and gold, modest peach, plain
ivory trimmed in dusky purple, 
dwindled into June’s distance, leaving
skeletal stems in full 
skirts touched with yellow, 
too heavy for dancing.  Autumn’s blooms 
hide in their corners like stubborn 
children who refuse to dress up
and make a show for Grandma, while the trees
cling to tired green, lacking energy
to change to their party clothes. 

You also
have given it up and gone
away to play for a while, to sleep
somewhere else, where heat
is expected, and nobody misses 
hurrying.  But I am still here.
I’ve settled for the clink
of ice in the glass, the slow
turning of a page, the familiar groove
of radio and TV.  I’m content
to pump up the AC and wait for 
the latecomer, moving by some
tempo of its own, responding 
to a later hour, a different
angle of the sun, to unfold its leaves, to let
six golden petals as lacy
and delicate as the rose’s open
finally in solitary
glory on an August morning, 
in the lazy time, when nothing
new can begin.

Liz Huck