A patch of asters still blooms among the grass,
lavender lashes among rich green.
All summer I’ve watched as they lie low
hoping to escape the mower’s blades,
spreading out instead of reaching up,
perhaps a strategy when life is on the line.
Or beauty. Or even love. I’m not afraid
to lose my head – it’s for my heart I fear.
Crouching won’t protect me against whim.
Or fickleness. I’ve not grown tough.
Each time you leave is like the first.
My life slips sideways and I must wait
until I dare to stand, grow tall among the green
and towards the sun again.