Ragweed Revival

A love letter to autumn—complete with red noses, yellow fields of ragweed, and the holy gospel of post-nasal drip.

Ah, autumn—
the poets got you wrong.
They forgot the snot,
the drip, the throat raw as old wood.

Your golden fields of ragweed
wave like Sunday hallelujahs,
each stalk releasing
tiny yellow daggers of misery.

I cough up rainbows—
green to gold to rust—
the palette of decay itself.

Red noses bloom like chrysanthemums,
ears stuffed with cotton-thick regret.
You whisper, change is coming,
and I whisper back, yeah, in Kleenex form.

Still, I can’t quit you,
you pollen-slinging temptress,
you killer of sinuses,
you lovely, lethal thing.

So I’ll stand here, the sniffing mourner,
nose red as a November warning,
raising my tissue like a banner of surrender—
’cause nobody puts Benadryl in the corner.
—Carol 

© 2025 Carol Countryman. All rights reserved.
This piece is part of Psalm of Lies and the ongoing series Tales from East Texas.
Please share the link, not the text. Reprints, excerpts, or readings by permission only: carolcountryman@gmail.com.