Petals for My Rest

soft wind, bright sun 
five breaths of earth 
seven hues awaken

I ask no stone to stand over me,
no cold marble to mark the hour
when my breath slips into the sigh of the field.

Instead, I fold my body into the hush of grass,
and let the earth cradle me like a mother’s palm.
From the place where I lie, a chorus of colors erupts
violet, gold, and blushing pink
each petal a whisper that I have not truly gone.

The sun leans low, spilling molten light over the green,
and the meadow drinks it in, turning my grave
into a garden that hums with new life.
Bees pause, moths linger, and the wind carries the scent
of fresh bloom where once there was only stillness.

In this quiet field I become the seed,
the promise that death is not an ending
but a doorway to a thousand blossoms.
Every sunrise paints my resting place anew,
and every night the dew kisses the stems,
as if the night itself is saying, “You live on.”

So when you walk this meadow, hear the soft rustle
it is my voice, singing through the flowers,
a serene hymn of rebirth,
a reminder that from the soil of my silence,
beauty forever grows.