for Laurie Hertzel
When the nights cool
then bloom the asters at the wild edge
of the graveyard.
More white than blue
this fall, half flower, half feather,
a study in modesty.
We haven’t time for them,
not that they mind. We aren’t the mower
nor the browsing deer.
They haven’t time for us.
Quickly now, to seed before
the wind dies!