One Late Summer Poppy.


An escape,
The garden waits.
Blooms are fast fading,
remnants of earlier days.
Leaves are changing,
ready to blanket the earth.
Yet some persist.
Undaunted by the chill in the air.
Their blooms may be few,
but they ever remind.
That it is Mother Nature who rules this dirt,
not I.
and occasionally she has a sense of humor.


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