Uncultivated Fire

by Mary Brunini McArdle

They reached unprecedented peaks
A month ago–
Boltonia, black-eyed Susans, goldenrod.
At every intersection,
In every vacant lot,
The wares of Indian Summer.

November came with gusty winds
And stomped the blooming
With an icy foot;
The fields now covered with dry remnants,
An oddly tinted salmon
In the sun.

But with the right amount of light,
Or at a certain time of day,
The tips are lit with fire.
They flame in glory,
Those half-naked stalks;
For they are not aware
That they are weeds.