November 26th 2015 | golden rod

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November—
····will my bones will be beautiful as the golden
········rod’s?

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There’s still been no snow to lay down late summer’s flowers. The golden rod have all turned copper. I picked some, a lady’s slipper, aster, and some burdock (for which I’ve always had a fondness) and Meadowsweat which, though it looks dead, continues to live through the winter. The stem is green when snapped. Now I have my vase of November flowers on the kitchen table and next to it a book called Wildflowers and Winter Weeds. I thought of a poem I might write. A first line occurred to me: ‘November has its flowers too’. We’ll see if I can make a poem out of that.

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November
sunsets—remembering when golden rod
···················was gold

 

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Listening to Bach’s First Cello Suite as I write this. When I was out for my walk today, the golden rod, bleached a beautiful beige like tufts of wool, turned gold again catching the late fall’s sunset. The edge of the field was momentarily aglow.

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20 November 26th 2015

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