A vantage point for any pot
Of small, bronzed marigold
Is next to a bare, molting tree,
Where several pale green stems uphold
Odd milkweed pods that fill the spot –
They’re edible, I’m told.
As apples redden, I can see
Some purple asters, bold,
Merging with goldenrod. The lot
Springs out of tangled mold
To sing a muted symphony,
Which swells, as fronds unfold,
Revealing ancient ferny fans,
Hiding the withered also-rans.