The Asters And The Goldenrods Poem by Sonny Rainshine

I always dread to see the first asters
and the goldenrods,
those flushes of cornflower blue
and tawny plumes
that stand on the edge of the roads
as though hitchhiking
or waiting to get across.

Most people praise them as summer’s
swan song, a final extravaganza,
fanfare for the fall.

Without even thinking,
I begin to look for them
as early as late June,
peering out the corner of my
eyes as I drive to my job,
for a blur of blue,
a glint of gold.

But when it’s scarlet poppies I see instead,
white zinnias, black-eyed susans,
and acres of the greenest grass;
when I let down the car windows
and inhale the reviving wind,
and absorb into my innermost cells
the scent of late honeysuckle,
I understand once more that asters
and goldenrods are,
like us in our season,
temporary guests.