My Last Pansy

My Last Pansy
© 2017 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

Jack Frost stopped by last night
Wielding his wintry wand,
Touching all the flowers
Of which I had grown fond.
The bright dahlias fainted,
The dainty asters swooned,
Sunflowers bent their heads
While the east wind crooned.
Yet one purple pansy
Remained steadfast, alert,
Tucked in the rock garden
In its warm bed of dirt.
Did Jack Frost miss it?
Was he just being kind –
Leaving a memento
Of sweet summer behind?