WHITHERING

The end of the season in the gardens ushers in a profound stillness, where once vibrant life has peaked and now softly retreats into the waiting earth. I find myself drawn to this delicate moment, a fleeting pause between life and death, where the past lingers like a fading breath, and the future quietly whispers its inevitable arrival. In this space, time feels more tangible—the gentle passing of it, the weight of its presence, and the inescapable certainty of its flow. The flowers, once given life by human hands, now surrender to the inevitable pull of decay, their brief moment of beauty fading like a breath in the cold air. As they wither, there is a quiet echo of loss, a reminder of the fragility that lingers in these spaces. In their slow decline, I sense the weight of impermanence—how they too blossom and fade, returning to the earth in the same silence that greets the end of the season.