There blooms a patch of ragged aster
Beneath a chestnut tree,
While autumn browns the leaves above,
She waits in white for me.
Nature plays a brittle game,
Stripping strength from all I see,
Still the aster keeps her petals,
She waits in white for me.
Soon ice will bead thorn's curved edge,
Frost snap stem and gem the rain,
Snow bury my aster in chill stars—
But I shall wait till she comes again.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
