The cosmos’ dying, friend, is a pure flowering
forever colored on an earthdark canvas.
You wade at day’s end in umber stalks of asters,
the early spring still gracing your shoes,
summer running barefoot on through the grasses.
Within a garden of fall chrysanthemums,
gravity’s muscle pulls down to hushed soily beds
sleepy seeds from fading petals, births
Eastern Point Road, Gloucester