The ending was not what it seemed.
Withering, the beginning of a new stage.
Taking on a new form.
When petals fell, only to change in mid air.
Now flying above the same winds that had plucked them.
Like thousands of butterfly wings.
Raining down color over new ground.
Confetti breezes over cobblestone streets.
Streets far away from the branches that bore them.
These runaway petals.
Painting the town.