With a soft sound

With a soft sound
The flower fell from the tree
To the dirt next to me.
I picked it up and looked in wonder;
It's colour was faded.
I lifted it to my nose;
It's scent was gone.
But the flower fell with grace:
It fell because it's time had come.
Though dulled, it's colour still spoke
Of the beauty and purpose it had met in life...
It's service, even if only for a short time.
It's form, though soon it would dissolve,
Testified to who or what this flower had been —
Why it had been.
And, why now it was not.
Because every flower must fall.
This one, not from infection or disservice;
Nor from malnourishment or neglect.
Not because it was plucked,
Simply because it was time.
For everything, there is a season.

And oh, what a time —
What a moment in time —
And who am I?
That I should bear witness,
To share in the final moment, the end of a journey
— the final whisper of life.
A moment in time
Shared only
Between this flower, our God, and I.

We all, flowers, must fade.
Some of us know the rest of that song.
It is not wrong,
Though tragic;
It is not failure,
But the season.
And if I cannot be there,
To witness another flower fall,
Neither of us will lay down alone
But we will float
Under the loving eyes,
And land
In the gentle hands,
Of the One who orders time.

I placed the flower on the rock,
As I, too, will stay,
And let it be.