I have small, stiff marigolds
Brown splashed on tawny gold;
The outer petals lying flat,
The inner petals rolled
As though placed by some cunning hand
That made a thing the brain had planned.

No goldsmith with his tools and forge
Who made a chalice for a king,
No painter grinding secretly
The color that he hoped would bring
Life to his canvas, ever caught
More beauty in the thing he wrought.

There is a pungent smell of herbs
That clings to any hand that breaks,
The brittle stems are green as leaves
The visiting bright goldfinch shakes.
The goldfinch tears the flower apart
To find the seed hid in its heart.

I found the broken blossoms there,
Unfaded, color fresh and fine,
Dropped on the grass as though one poured
A flagonful of golden wine
Libation for some god who knows
The way a well loved garden grows.

O, far too soon the end will come
For golden bird and golden flower,
But he who mourns the blossom dead
Will miss the beauty of the hour
A hundred blossoms on the stem
Invite the bird to come to them!

The marigolds stand stiffly there,
Indifferent to one who dies,
Hospitable to bird and bee
And flocks of cabbage butterflies.
Stronger than Summer flowers, they dare
To love September's frosty air.

Stronger than Summer flowers, they lift
Their heads to see the Summer go,
And when the reaper frost comes by
They meet him in a marshalled row.
His glittering scythe sweeps bare and clean
The garden where their gold is seen.