Comhroinn Fuaime

The flowers saw. They nodded slow. They folded up, row after row. The daisies curled. The poppies bowed. The buttercups drooped, soft as a cloud One little rose held on, held tight, petals open to the fading light. Then even that last rose let go and tucked its petals soft and low. The wind blew soft, one final breeze, and wound itself between the trees. Then even the wind had nothing to say. It curled up tight and called it a day.