Craig W. Steele

Daylilies make me want to write,
awakening my dozing Muse
(from where she snoozes in gray ooze)
with blaring trumpets, sunspot bright.

In every blazing, gilded clutch
their flaring blossoms aren’t just raised,
but forward thrust, as if amazed
like gawking tourists stunned at such

sublime attractions that abound
in sight and sound, the varied hues
of passing insects, rainbows, dew,
since last they peeked above the ground.

And speaking of their afterlife,
how did daylilies learn the truth,
that the secret of eternal youth
is resurrection as new life?