The petals curl, edges browned by time—what was once spring’s bloom now fades gently into summer’s hush.
I watched them not as they died, but as they changed.
Maturity isn’t an ending. It’s an invitation: to slow down, to notice more, to find the beauty tucked inside a quiet spiral of decay.
We talk so much about beginnings. But there’s poetry in the middle, too.
Summer is here. Not bright with arrival, but warm with memory.
