You know how every so often - and this could be
a Midwestern thing, you might not understand -
during the dense torso of summer, one afternoon
the wind just decides to clear its throat and sing?
I mean, a full blown chorale, like she’s rested all
year for this one performance. No rehearsal
needed. And it comes out of nowhere; the morning
was unassuming enough. But suddenly you’re
unexpected witness to this simple beauty, just
the bellowing wind flirting with the dancing
trees and the stripped-down sun. Like the universe
decided to filter out all the unessential beauties.
Well, the look you gave me last night when I told
you I liked the daylily tucked behind your ear was
a lot like that. A half second of real brilliance.
Really, it’s not maudlin to say this was the one
idiom we’ll share, our minor duet at the gracious
behest of universal time. Me out the door, you
tucking your head away, the daylily with its
mouth imperceptibly agape at some nascent
surprise, just beginning its brief unfurl. Me saying,
quietly, I like that flower. It’s very pretty. You
allowing your entire existence to slacken, to
compress into this grateful half smile that no
one else saw. I’ll lose that smile some day, not
all that long from now. Which is really a shame.
I’d like to hold it for a while. Such honesty is rare.