Yellow
by Patricia Goodman
Poison ivy, climbing a white oak
on the creek bank, yellows
from the brush killer I sprayed
last week.
It’s the last day of summer--
already a few yellow leaves drop
from the tulip poplars. In the creek
a single pale wild cherry leaf
drifts to the water’s surface,
floats downstream, as random
and beyond my control
as the loss of those I love.
But today
I will plant daffodil bulbs
in my little meadow--
sunshine assured for spring,
and only yesterday
the surprise bud
on my confused tree peony
exploded in fragrant gold.
by Patricia Goodman
Poison ivy, climbing a white oak
on the creek bank, yellows
from the brush killer I sprayed
last week.
It’s the last day of summer--
already a few yellow leaves drop
from the tulip poplars. In the creek
a single pale wild cherry leaf
drifts to the water’s surface,
floats downstream, as random
and beyond my control
as the loss of those I love.
But today
I will plant daffodil bulbs
in my little meadow--
sunshine assured for spring,
and only yesterday
the surprise bud
on my confused tree peony
exploded in fragrant gold.
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