An open embrace
of the end of the self to
become, in time, Self
To me, flowers have a deeper beauty than those ephemeral moments of blooming glory. They fling their petals wide in total abandonment to possibility, then quickly fade. But if all has gone well, they may undergo the metamorphosis. Even as the once-gleaming crown of youth withers and crumbles, the core begins to swell, becoming eventually the fruit that houses the seed which, is in turn the possibilility of an entirely new life.
Each bloom, then, is itself a tree in the making. But only by ceasing to be the bloom may it fulfill its purpose.