I’m not needed for the Sun to rise nor for the birds
to chirp their generous “good mornings” to one another.
Branches from gargantuan oak trees would still dance
to the soothing songs whistled by the wind
and the withered autumn leaves would continue to
decorate the familiar suburban streets, in shades of
brilliant browns and outstanding oranges.
Nevertheless, the Sun would coat the sky with her
most lavish pink and purple paints as she anticipates
her daily fall. Without me, dozens of shining stars
would still sprinkle the night sky, twinkling down
on those who gaze upon them.
My insignificance is that of a single wilting daisy
in a field of vivacious flowers or the minor crack in
a sidewalk full of greater fractures.
But in my absence, who would follow the Sun
on her journey through the morning sky? The gallery
displaying her artwork would remain vacant,
leaving her empty. I memorize the choreography
created by the trees, I desire the rhythm they possess.
And for dessert, who would eat up the stars sprinkled above?
Remembering the strength of that sidewalk
and the innocence of the dying daisy
is the definition of my existence.