Mid-November—and Finally gone the State’s bright flower, Which opened every morning and closed With evening’s light; and were that Not glum enough even autumn’s Asters are beaten back and Sodden lie by the muddy track.
Yet come you now with reckless, Wild and heedless growth, and on The tip of each wind-blown branch Sprout you three round and foolish buds As if you thought it Early June or end of May.
And they, not content to swirl about In gusts of wind and driving rain, Dare to openly proclaim That most improbable of Flowers: a lavender, long-petaled, And soon-to-be-doomed Harbinger of distant spring. Come, together we enter the winter’s dark.
Doug Ingold
This article appears in Bitten.