A Stranger too Often
Fields of flowers
in late September --
mountain asters,
purple loose strife,
golden rod with
bowed heads and
autumn colours
thick with
expectation --
a season of
enduring.
Though I
can name each
flower in the
meadows
and marsh…
I do not know
how they call
themselves.
How does
the seductive
purple flowers
invite the dapper
yellow golden
rod to swoon
in the falling
tumbling caress
of a pirouette?
Are the white
asters so innocent
with their blushing
intimation of desire?
How has the memory
of sunflowers’s voluptuous
embrace of the sun
been spoken?
I will gather this
bouquet of colours
and fire, hold them
close to my soul,
and listen to their
true secret names…
namaya@vermontpoet.com
