These petals, time-stained at the edges, hold memories

of purple bleeding through the veils between worlds. Our dying

is both ending and beginning—each curl and crisp echoing

through mirrors of might-have-been, where gravity

releases its hold on our stems.

Watch how we catch starlight differently now,

our flesh turned translucent as ancient maps,

our veins threading paths between was and will-be.

Even as we scatter into stardust, we're teaching

new languages of grace.

Don't press us between pages just yet—

there's magic in our preservation,

stories spiralling through our dried stems,

wisdom in the way we're learning to exist

in multiple moments, one ghost-petal at a time.

In the garden of perhaps, we are always

opening our throats to tomorrow's light.

—Louise Worthington