The specters and spectators dance,
Like leaves in the autumn night;
The broken, the brittle, and the old
Are made dewy, luminous, and gold
In the flower light.
The chrysanthemums burn
As the candles melt and drop,
One by one genuflect in their turn
Until the dancers stop.
The burnt offerings leave,
Or are taken and wheeled away;
Folding their trophies and their play,
Storing the yearbooks and promises away.
I forgot I loved you that senior night,
And remembered what we were
Only because of the flower light.
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