Friday, November 03, 2006
MARIGOLDS
The marigolds are
the last to die,
spiteful of seasons, each
a colony of tiny
orange petals grouped
around a mystery.
The bees retreat
as furnaces fog
the windows,
when our choices
are few:
the hothouse
or the marigolds,
all other flowers
in the mulch.
Labels: poem
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"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
"...grouped around a mystery..." beautiful language and you captured the season in one bloom. ty
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