Marigolds in November

What thief who sucked the colors out of leaves,
and spat them brown and curling to the breeze,
and hid the sun behind a sheet of gray,
mysteriously permitted you to stay?

A hundred suns that tremble in the cold,
and shake their spangled globes of ruffled gold,
tumbling over broken stems they lean
to touch the spidery hands of evergreen.

The final sparks of autumn’s dying fire
are tangled in a twisted snarl of briar,
and though it’s true a bitter season reigns,
this prayer, this steadfast song of joy, remains.