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By John I. Blair

There’s something about goldenrod,
The kind I know,
As if upon another world than ours.

The springtime shoots drive up
With urgency belying
The months until they’ll bloom

And keep on reaching for the sky,
Trying how high they can go
Till gravity commands and bends them low.

Some spike to fifteen feet or more,
Herbaceous towers defying plausibility,
Almost intimidating in their show.

Just about the time I deem them weeds,
The tops flare out in graceful feather shapes
That shift from green to golden glory.

Waving across October blue above,
Entertaining bees and wasps and butterflies,
They put my doubts to shame,

Reminding me that I should never doubt
The absolute correctness
Of all things that grow.

©2016 John I. Blair, 10/11/2016

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