The Lone Goldenrod

One tall colorful plant stands proudly in the empty field

having its lower body denuded yet still sporting

golden yellowish flowers on its upper quarter, surviving

determinedly against rains, winds, and now three frosts

towering above dead clumps of fallen comrades, patches of

short new green grasses, teaching me through the

kitchen window to bloom in spite of weed poisoning

brutal mowing, weather, loneliness and approaching winter

God teaches me about power, even through wild flowers—just one

Humming Through A Storm

Lashing water thrashes in whirls

pouring masses of rain flood the

land in front of the house in only

five minutes drowning vision and

senses with sound and light when

suddenly a miniature, dark

silhouetted body speeds out of the

swirling blinding rain on lightning

fast wings weakening, but arriving at my

hanging feeder, drenched, clinging

on the foot rest for ten, fifteen

minutes and I wait with him until the

worst of the wind passes and he spirits

home to tell his story to the family