In autumn’s hush, they rise like quiet suns, Petals folded in a scholar’s patient grace; The frost-tipped dawn, the season nearly done, Yet still they hold their luminous embrace. Not roses' boast, nor lilies' fleeting breath, But steadfast blooms that weather winter's call; They speak in tones of gold about a death That is no end, but transformation’s thrall. Each bloom a lantern lit for shorter days, A testament to beauty’s tempered will; In fading light they weave their steadfast blaze, And teach the heart how courage can be still. So may we learn, beneath the paling skies, To flower best when summer's glory dies.