A Fond Farewell To Summer
Traveling with a field book we find
the meadows of wild iris, a lake
of blue flags and green blades
waving in the wind's wake.
If these give no one pause
nor cause the happiness
that Wordsworth's daffodils
and Monet's fields can claim,
do they grow unseen in vain
in the clutch of blind
wilderness unowned?
We leave the flowers behind
although we name
them and make them ours.