Smiling at the Dead
The first hard frost fell last night.
The last of the morning glories are mush.
Killed off. Dead.
Still, it was a long season.
Flowers flourished far longer
than any of us had any right to enjoy.
But enjoy we did, and even now
as I look at the withered leaves
and browning vines, I am grateful.
Not everyone gets a second crop,
a second chance, a second love,
new colors that burn themselves
into your retinas and your heart.
Indelible memories of dandelions
and roses you smell still,
long into the winter,
allowing you to smile
at the dead.
About this poem
We had our first frost last night. Late for Vermont.
A lot of bad stuff happens in a life. True of me, true of all of us. But it is good to be in a place where I can look back and let the ugly go, and still manage to see the beauty of things, Like celebrating the dandelions in the picture when the morning glories are freshly dead.
Two thoughts that made this poem.