Chrysanthemum lit gently by the moon,
its petals basking in her eerie glow.
Oh, Mistress of the Night, don’t leave so soon.
No, let the hourglass sand suspend its flow,
so I can sit here, by the window sill,
and capture it with my imperfect brush.
Stay there and shine, be absolutely still,
while I attempt to suade the purple, lush,
imperiously self-important bloom,
to grace this eager canvas with its shape,
so others, too, can place it in their room,
and find in it a moment of escape,
a moment when the Mistress of the Night
engulfs you too in gentle, holy light.
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