A star, seen close, ravishes.
Half a billion years from now
it implodes, a self-ravishment.
Prairie asters, thin-petaled
and drought-abiding, die in fall,
sleep late, rise slowly.
All July and August they stand
for themselves, tilt in wind,
and fade, quiet as long-gone stars.
Athena Kildegaard, the author of three books of poetry, lives in Morris, Minnesota.