There is a shade of purple in this flower near summer’s end that makes
you proud to be alive in such a world, and thrilled to know the gift
of sight. It seems a color sent from memory or dream. In fields,
along old trails, at pasture edge, the ironweed bares its vivid tint,
profoundest violet, a note from farthest star and deepest time,
the glow of sacred royalty and timbre of eternity
right here beside a dried-up stream.