Niche

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.