A Stranger too Often

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