Almost an Ode
Radiance of New England Aster
flatters my agrarian instincts.
Am I thinking potatoes, wheat,
cabbage? This ripe shade of blue
nourishes more than orange or green
vegetables by filling cavities
eroded in my aesthetic sense.
You also admire these flowers,
which brace a phalanx in the park
by the river. We never see
anyone pause to examine them.
Dogwalkers sport admirable pets
but focus on their cell phones,
tourist hustle toward the café,
the rare courting couple lose
themselves in each other. Trained
by peering into Monet’s landscapes,
we mingle structure and color
in a soup of vague affection
taught by the arts but invoked
only by fauna and flora.
The river considers itself
a life-form, and we must agree.
It coughs and sputters and slops
right up to our feet and smiles.
Looking upstream from the park,
we note broken trees toppled
down the steep bank near the highway.
Such entropy also nourishes
by recycling carbon-based matter
that composes all our thoughts.
Although autumn suggests we’re old,
it allows a glimpse of aster
to ease the tension otherwise
affixed to distant horizons—
the myth of the vanishing point.
