marigold

It’s warm for mid-November.
The lacework branches of
elm, poplar, and hackberry
still hold half their leaves,
and marigolds still bloom in the pot
beside my back door.
A bee visits the merry, gold,
peppery-sweet blossoms,
forages in the rich center of each.
Years ago, the entire front garden
of a house I lived in
was planted in marigolds.
On the sidewalk bordering the garden,
my first child took his first steps.
So, dear marigold,
you are merry,
you are golden,
and you may be a bee’s lunch,
but you’ll always mean first steps to me.
You will always make me smile.