Chrysanthemums
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 bes
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