Why are you crying, my love?
She wiped her eyes,
sniffled her nose,
and lifted her gaze to the window
above the sink.
The goldenrod and ironweed are blooming,
she said, slipping her hands into soapy water.
The earth is settling her melancholy
deep into my bones,
unfurling her funeral flowers alongside
roads and in the low, wet places of the hills,
one last majestic sight
before fading into rust and gold.
One last burst of color to hold
during the long, bleak of winter.
That is the most poetic way I have ever heard
anyone describe their allergies, my love.
Sarah Stoltzfus Allen 