Stealing marigolds from the dew-covered meadow, my eyes were drawn to a withering blossom.
I crept toward this wonder, eying the creation ever so wonderfully.
Its petals were crisp, though atrophied from age, and were hanging in the morning's dampened greeting.
Its leaves, drooping and wrinkled, were alive from Spring's breath. Til the death of Autumn they stood, suffering yet glorified, depressed yet not sad at all.
And as I watched this beauty, those dew drops loosened their grip and slid gently down the petals, those crisp petals, that belonged to the marigold that was withering away.