It is a week or two past prime ragweed season.
Mostly the yellow fronds are turning brown,
the last of their pollen spent. Eyes finally
getting relief. Watering less. Yet
I have to admit I will miss the bright pops of color,
I will miss the fields of unabashed weedy yellow,
unapologetic. Bee fodder. Dancers in the wind.
Another season gone. Victims of the frost with
one or two survivors.
Music plays at the diner. Steve Miller. Bill Withers.
A splash of Motown.
The teenagers at the other table look lost
as I sing each song softly to myself, showing
my age and gladly. Glad to be a survivor,
dancing in the wind, a pop of yellow,
admiring the ragweed,
particularly the final fronds of the season.
About this poem
A poem about ragweed, about fall, about all we survived in our lives. Poetry is one thing.
With apologies to Goldenrod, which as one of my botanist friends reminded me, is what is in my photograph. However, I had no Ragweed shots, so I used this one.