1942–
Why the Aging Poet Continues to Write
At a coneflower’s seed-making center,
hundreds of tiny dark florets —
each stiff and sharp —
take turns oozing
their flashes of pollen.
A flagrant
bee-stopping show.
Making a bright circle,
the outermost spiky blossoms
open first to then fade.
Shrinking day by day,
the ring of yellow flame
moves inward.
That heart — what’s at
the flower’s very core —
blazes last.