Kenneth Pobo

The Last

asters shone blue flashlights deep
into November until the batteries died.
When I cut the stalks down,

emptiness. Except for farfugiums
looking a 22-degree night right in the eye.
Stems lean over the pot’s edge, yet,
given a touch of sun, they rise up,
night a bad dream. I think:
maybe they’ll make Christmas.

It’s never happened before, green
pads flat on dirt, stems gone thin
as shoestrings. I fail at letting go,
check for any green refusal

to surrender. Back inside, I curse
winter, miss a painting made of frost
just hung on the window.

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