About survival, these blooms were among
the few that knew how to master it. Chrysanthemums,
how well they withstood this twilight time,
this lingering along the garden edges, ensconced
and embedded within the border hedges,
while pedestrians passing back and forth upon the pavement
paid more attention to their daily tasks and traffic.
Children guessed, but only one or two, and they were soon
tugged away by an adult’s impatient hand.
Even the little dog playing fetch will pause
in its search for that flung stick or ball
to sniff instead among its roots.
That old man, for instance, sitting on the park bench
as still as a statue in his shabby overcoat and floppy galoshes,
sensed it: longevity.
But for him, it was humble realization.
The sun was shining, the close-cropped grass, littered
by the first sprinkling of autumn leaves, glittered
in the breeze, only a hint of winter.
Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places, but now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag, she is training for road races or practicing yoga.
