Eyelash petals thrust out with intention
the last purple aster stands stout
amidst the pumpkin spice melee
of a hillside in high autumn.
Wildflowers are things of the past.
For five miles
I see only an understory ablaze
except for
this single aster,
that one arnica
a lone lupine under the log.
These late blossoms are my soul sisters.
We are not just willing but wanting to bloom
even though it is long after the time of temperance
even though this late start shortens our time in the sun.
During summer’s incandescent days
while we watched so many others blossom
we were not idling in envy.
As slower growers, we were
putting roots down, sending stalks up
hoping to bloom before the frost
believing that growth was our destiny
accepting each day unto itself.