Bello faced the day.

 

Not because he meant to.
Not because he wanted to be seen.

 

He faced it because that was how he grew.

 

His petals opened wide.
Red filled the space they made.
Yellow rested at the center.

 

The light met him easily.

 

It lingered.
It warmed.
It moved on.

 

Others slowed as they passed.

 

They paused nearby.
They passed again.

 

Bello did not follow them with his color.
He stayed where he was.

 

As the season shifted,
the day did not stay as long.

 

Light slid earlier from the edges of things.
Air cooled.

 

Bello did not draw himself inward.

 

Not wider.
Not brighter.

 

Just present.

 

Color began to rest elsewhere too.

 

It settled into leaves.
It deepened in grass.
It moved across water when the wind passed.

 

Bello did not lose his color.

 

He simply did not hold it all anymore.

 

Some days, fewer paused.
Some days, none did.

 

Bello did not turn away.

 

He did not close himself.

 

He stood where he was,
while the world learned other places for color to be.

 

Red softened.
Yellow loosened.

 

The day grew quieter.

 

When evening came sooner,
Bello was still there.

 

Still facing the day,
but no longer holding attention.

 

The world had enough color now.