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…
They bloom without question,
Then vanish in rhythm.

No one ever sees the final surrender,
Its quiet return,
The sky’s last tear—
The ground’s soft ache.

But fall is not a loss—
It is rest,
A pause,
A stillness
Holding the shape of return.

While Love, unnamed,
Waits in the marrow of time,
Ready to rise
When nothing expects it.