There is a progression, a
Parade if you will of blooming flowers,
And sunlight on dewy meadows it starts
In the spring, the Iris
Blossoms above the frozen duff.
Sooner rather than later, wild daffodils
And daisies, columbine and sunflowers
Wild strawberries, and the occasional fruit blossom,
Make their steady, stately marches
Up and down the mountain.
Wild rose, the ultimate
Opportunist, And that reckless interloper
The weed, that hopeless, homeless squatter
That pompous impugner
Of beautiful places.
In the end the high days of summer turn misty and cool
In the meadows and the canyons
Life quickens, early morning fog and days growing shorter
Like old, worn out batteries
In something new.
In late September
Before the first frost, between those tired days of mundane
Reckoning and the slow, steady march of winter
The asters come forth in a sort of mating dance or
Maybe some binary message made of riotous, purple emblems.
They have yellow centers, they live
About a week, small purple flowers with yellow centers
And absolutely no scent,
Clustered together in threes and in dozens