Almost December.   Indifferent 
to seasons     the marigolds
persist. I am surprised by their pluck
and lack of propriety
their ability to ignore 
the inappropriate: 
a rusted leaking window box
a shaky fire escape
leading to a cemented street
below. They do not mourn
that all good things must 
come to an end     and accept 
that end as fate or destiny. 
Instead      without struggle 
or assessment of soil
moisture    heat     air    they continue
blooming      in chilling winter light
exactly as they did all summer.