I watched my echinacea die away.
The petals slipped out, one by one, and fluttered to the ground.
The butterflies moved on.
The stems dried and darkened.
The leaves curled and crisped and crumbled.
Maybe it was the stress of the move.
Maybe it was just their time.
But they left behind something extraordinarily beautiful.
I suppose that’s what we all hope for in the end.