Chrysanthemum

It's strange that no one knows what is really on my hat.

"The latest fashion?" they say.

"Fresh from Europe just got back today."

"I like the pom; it's really quite eye catching"

"It's not a pom my dear but thanks for the reaction"

Conversations like these are becoming all too common,

And it's so strange to me.

For how can it be mistaken the bright colors I wear on my hat?

I mean I guess if you don't look closely it kind of looks like that.

The kind of pom of yarn we see on grandma's sweaters.

The one's we burn shortly after she leaves because we'd rather be tarred and feathered.

Like seriously who wears those sweaters?

But I digress I guess,

And that's perfectly okay.

Because today I was thrown off by a man that came my way.

He bore upon his hat the same thing as on mine.

I asked him where he got it he said it's for his wife.

I asked him why he had it on such a darkened hat;

With colors, oh so bright it deserves much more than that.

"Well you see," he says to me,

"I'm from Europe across the ocean;

I'm Swiss if you must know,

And this flower means death for us

And only at funerals we let it show.

I guess I can't argue with grieving, but I think it's awful queer

To not use a white chrysanthemum for the one you hold so dear."