Today's poem is by Maggie Smith
Goldenrod
I'm no botanist. If you're the color of sulfur
and growing at the roadside, you're goldenrod.You don't care what I call you, whatever
you were born as. You don't know your own name.But driving near Peoria, the sky pink-orange,
the sun bobbing at the horizon, I see everythingis what it is, exactly, in spite of the words I use:
black cows, barns falling in on themselves, you.Dear flowers born with a highway view,
forgive me if I've mistaken you. Goldenrod,whatever your name is, you are with your own kind.
Lookthe meadow is a mirror, full of you,your reflection repeating. Whatever you are,
I see you, wild yellow, and I would let you name me.
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Copyright © 2017 Maggie Smith All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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