Wild Asters by Sara Teasdale
In the spring I asked the daisies
If his words were true,
And the clever, clear-eyed daisies
Now the fields are brown and barren,
Bitter autumn blows,
And of all the stupid asters
Not one knows
I allow the wild asters to grow rampantly in my garden. They grew so tall, they now lay down sprawled on the flower patch, limbs growing sideways, worn out after many hard nights in the moonlight.
I feel this weariness. I am the tiny crumbling flower fuzz.
My brown barren days are coming, my wisdom will come and go.
But I will always allow the wild asters in my gardens because the wild needs tending too.
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