Chrysanthemums Chrysanthemums bloom as all else falls giving hope to some that our world is not dying Large orange globes peer up, so like the October moon, lighting the fields of chaff being gleaned by ravens. Chrysanthemums lack the showy youth of the daffodil brashly pushing up through frozen ground to reclaim the land for flowers everywhere. They lack the heady scent of the mature summer rose as it calls to lovers on warm breezes pulling them together over it’s beauty. They do not glory in the slumber of the denuded oak as it stands tall and barren through the long winter showing its strength through it’s transparency. No, Chrysanthemums are an invitation to welcome endings. They are the hope inherent in desiccation, the peaceful promise of mortality. Their life is a brief moment of brilliant amber imprint on the memories of centuries, across a harvest sky. A fiery reminder that there is beauty in transitions. If tomorrow started without me. No flags would lower No mass gathering of strangers No dimming of the sky or sun No despair on any level that could shudder deep within the earth and shake any out of complacency. None of it. For I was never that important. In the vast emptiness of multi-versal space I am merely a billionth of the atoms, momentarily holding their breath before exploding again into stardust or sand. Most people will never know my name will never see my tears will never taste my famous macaroni and cheese. And though I was born without the longing to see another sunset or to live through the darkness for another sunrise - nevertheless - I will try and be here tomorrow. Because I know that in the billions of people on this Earth who will never know or care that I existed - at least one - will be devastated by my loss. And long ago I promised to never make you cry.