The Precious Ones

There are only a few of them left this late in the season.
Their color catching the afternoon sun,
weaving slightly in the late day breeze.

Most of the blooms have died now.
They hang brown and crinkled on green stems.
The rest, those few October flowers, stand out
for their perseverance.

It will not be long until the first frost.
It comes early here. And that will be the end of them.

It is odd how, in the full flush of summer
you rarely noticed the individual flowers,
only the walls of color that filled your eyes.
But now, with so few left, you notice each one,

How they catch the light; their silky texture,
the dusting of pollen. You stop and take time
and look at their fragile beauty,
all too aware of the coming winter.

About this poem

The photograph was taken yesterday in my backyard. A poem about flowers, fall, late in life love, and aging. Poetry is never about one thing. Neither are we.

Tom