I refuse to plant mums
or set them apron-prim
in pots along my walk.
What have they to say
that hasn’t been said before?
I prefer autumn’s tawdry mix
of unkempt rows,
sunflower’s swollen prose;
stripped-down lilly’s
arcs of green
turned shadowy wisps;
maple leaves’ last fling
with sun,
doomed to fatal swoon
when day’s done.
I’d rather not
extend the reign
of the floral domain
with stingy pots
of color spots
when wild fall is all about––
the straggly romance
of late blooming petunia
twined in Glory blue,
promiscuous phlox
in all its hues,
milkweed’s blousy tufts
drifted who knows where.
The day bud’s last flower
is all I need of the hour.
Chrysalis Journal