These are the last of Summer’s flowers.
They watch their season go.
They’re leeched of life and struggle
as their colors fade to ‘no.’
Their perfume is not redolent.
Their vibrant petals curl,
turn into brown and sepia,
then plucked by windy swirl.
The icy winds of winter come,
to see them to their end.
And it will die next to its tree,
and lay next to a friend.
Until the springtime breezes block
the grave-cold winter’s eyes,
the last of summer’s flowers bloom,
themselves a worthy prize.
Beyond Panic 