Click Page 51
No one told the violet mums that Summer’s gone
and I won’t be the one to spoil the fun.
Rose, forsythia, iris, lily early debutants
all have shed their heels and party dresses
shut the blinds and gone to winter slumber
till the light regains the slant and sizzle
to lift their pretty lids. but still
the mums raise cocktail glasses high
and flirt with passers-by as if their girlish glee
could melt the ice on through to spring.
Now the gardener arrives with hoe
and stormy countenance to decree
Fall’s timely hegemony
to plow this fashion season under with the rest
and leave a brilliant gown across the ground
in somber quietude to meet the snow.
I plead the case for sparing giggly mums
for letting youthful beauty run its course
so they can radiate beneath the craggy moon
and tug his frown into a smile.
I’ll go each night in eager stealth
and scrape the snow off of their cheeks
to let them ruffle purple skirts
and kick their spirits high
to put a sparkle in an old man’s eye.