Goldenrod

If I don't say it

someone will: the wind

blows through the goldenrod

like death flows through a crowd.

I watch it from a distance

as the whole field lifts and stirs.

Close up, it holds the promise

of a less than perfect world.

I knew the thing

before I knew its name.

Now all I know

is what the name infers:

a life of pure sensation

or the rod some angel brings—

announcing a momentous

death or birth, each face

expectant, brightly-lit.

I say the name and what it means

until the meaning blurs.

The wind blows through the goldenrod

like death flows through a crowd.

Nothing is accomplished

and the world is changed by it.