I see them now,
the solidago, tall and bright
and yellow, standing
at attention along country
roads, end-of-summer soldiers.
Ninety years ago, my mother
was thrilled by their appearing.
I know because she told me.
"I loved to see the goldenrod,"
she said. "It meant that
school would soon begin."
I could not understand.
I hated school, dreaded
summer's end, questioned
Mother's sanity. Not out loud,
of course. I kept my dread
inside. I went out back
and walked along the creek.
I found a rank of goldenrod.
I took a stick and
hacked them to the ground.
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Your story-telling skills in this and the previous poem are superb.
ReplyDeleteI can identify with you. For many years after I was no longer in school, fall still brought a vague dread in the pit of my stomach. I was torn--I loved the color and smell of fall, but not its implications (going back to school).
ReplyDeleteAha -- a fellow-sufferer! Thanks for your comments, Dale
ReplyDeleteKen