Solidago

Oh goldenrod, turned brown, your burling
seedheads, stalks withered.

Yet you stand upright beside
this morning’s damp ledge-stone.

I carried cans of water to your feet
all through the hot, bone-dry summer.

You rocked in the searing breeze,
bending toward the sun even so.

I’ve admired your late-summer blooms,
where the bees rubbed their yellow-coated legs.

Yesterday some hopeful rain finally splashed
down and soaked into the dusty ground.

Are your roots reaching outward
to extend your footprint for next year’s glory?