Wild Asters

After months of heat,
when the grass has gone brittle
and the live oaks hold their leaves
like old church ladies clutching their fans,
when the pavement shimmers
and the afternoon feels endless

the asters come.

Small stars
along the roadside,
from foundation borders
where no one planted them.

They do not ask permission
of the hard earth.
They simply appear,
quiet as a promise,
scattered through the weeds
at the edge of the road.

And somehow we know: summer is loosening its grip.

The brutal sun
will not reign forever.
Soon the evenings will soften,
the wind will grow loud,
and somewhere a child
will leave the door open
just a little longer.

The asters know before we do.

They bloom
at the very threshold of autumn,
when Texas is still hot
and the earth still thirsty,
but the season has already turned
somewhere deep beneath us.

So I look for them

those little wild stars
holding their faces to the light,

Just a few brave flowers
appearing in the dust.