From front porches to displays of corn
shucks and cushaws, they glow. Vermilion,
yellow ochre and chrome yellow say the tubes
in my paintbox. Mums say the same with
a sense of urgency . They are ephemeral.
So are we but as annuals they flame and flirt with
death. Coolness wraps us like a ragged housecoat.
Mums like old maids are the last ones to go.
The last dance and last chance for blooming.
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