Wild Asters

The asters quiver like palsied heads

ringed with lavender.

Every year at this time they come down with the shakes.

August fever. It has something to do with

the way insects approach them, hurriedly,

on frayed wings. And the wind

forces them into postures of forgetfulness.

There is warmth but no future here.

No time to grow young again and tour the Grecian isles.

They rock in sunny spots, where the

pebbles remind them of bone china,

discussing their daughters, the clouds,

and their sons, the tall trees.