A group of admirers stands beneath a woman's balcony, hoping for some sign of affection from her. They already know she won't be faithful to any of them, yet they wait anyway. She blows a single kiss into the night, and each man is sure it's meant for him. They fling their arms back like wings and point their lips at the sky.
Then the kiss bursts out of sight, which feels like a letdown, until it breaks into thousands of smaller kisses. The title's chrysanthemum image fits: the kiss blooms like a firework. But the kisses vanish before anyone catches one, and she leaves, bored, to find fun somewhere else.
The speaker speaks as one of the crowd ("us," "we"), and the mood mixes longing, comic eagerness, and a sting of humiliation. The men look a little foolish, gaping upward, but the poem is gentle about their hunger. It ends on thirst, a want that never gets satisfied.