Crisantemo was the last flower still standing. The roses had dropped their petals. The lilies had folded. The marigolds had turned brown. But Chrysanthemum remained, bright and bold, long after autumn had faded.
“Why won’t you die?” the frost asked.
“I’m not ready,” Chrysanthemum said.
The frost wrapped around her stem. She stiffened but did not fall. The wind pulled at her petals. She held on.
A small spider, searching for a place to spin her winter web, crawled onto Chrysanthemum’s leaves.
“You’re still here,” the spider said.
“So are you,” Chrysanthemum replied.
The sp