Even now I see, as I gaze at these spent asters
fallen on the new snow, their grace remains,
their delicate song echos still and enchants
so that it is suddenly late summer in my mind
and the hillside is strewn with their purple petals
as they waltz with the goldenrod in the warm air.
It was a fine dream, and I thanked them,
awed that they could hold such power, even now.