The Late Chrysanthemum

An aberration: the
birth of a late
chrysanthemum
decidedly past her season; an
earnest, anxious
fall flower rushing to
grow. Though frosted by
harvest's breath, she remains
imbued with a certain, gentle
joy, as if celebrating beauty in death -
knowing she will be killed by the
last light of autumn’s candle melt, by
moonlight’s newfound cruelty,
newer even than that
of fresh and opalescent
poetry penned with a quiet
quill - poised, perhaps, in a
raving, quaking,
shock-white hand; a soul shadow
traced by sharpened blade,
undertaking the inevitable
violence of imminent
winter: a giant
X across ten thousand
years - the insidious
zodiac of ever-cycling seasons.