The Last Bouquet

Each of the autumn frosts takes away the flowers, bit by bit.  I hate to see them go!  I adore the riots of color that the earth pours forth throughout the growing season, colors that seem to grow even bolder come fall.  I suppose all the crisping and browning about makes it so. 

When a frost is imminent, I do what I can.  I'm delighted if I can save a flower or two or more from a certain premature death. I pick those I sense will be lost.  I've done this a few times this fall.  I think I'm beholding my last bouquet, and then I find more.  

All of the flowers pictured have survived a few frosts now.  "Not just yet, not so fast," they seem to say--my heros, not so fragile after all!--and speckle the landscape with their vivid colors slightly longer.  "Now that's a will to live," I marvel. 

I gather one here, one there.  Another frost or two will take them all.