A moment's glow

Caught in a patch
of late-afternoon sun,
the tulips on the kitchen counter
glow with a light of their own,
and in so doing, cast a shadow,
carving in black
upon the marbled surface
a temporary testament.

For one brief moment
they take the center stage
and all of us,
standing in the room,
remark upon the glow
and then move on,
shifting with the light
into whatever's next --

the sifting of some flour,
the stirring of a soup,
a handful of blueberries
brought in from the garden;
turning our attention
to a new savoring --
a blue burst of sweetness
or the setting sun,
bringing a blush
to the cheek of a distant mountain.

Moments later, turning back,
we find the tulips tame again,
the light distributed evenly,
all shadows gone.
The marbled counter
dwindles to mere formica,
the oven timer dings
and dinner is served.