I've marveled at that one continuous parasol petal, a fabric of such gossamer translucence that it must be lit from within.
And then there's that breathtaking color—blue's my favorite, a clearer, truer blue than that of any bloom.
But this evening I stop and appreciate the plant's evening glory. Here, in one
gaze, are both its coming and going, evidence that one's not simply the inverse
of the other.
No, morning glory unfurls radially, like a twirled umbrella, but curls up another way, rolling in and over itself like water down a round hole. It will not open again.
The irony's not lost on this wonderer that, so unlike me, this moment's all about past and future. I'm glad that, come morning, now will once again unfurl.