There is beauty in death. Nature teaches us this. Just as Butterflies live for one dance before they part ways with one another and life, flowers grow more beautiful as they die.

After a life consumed with sex, sunshine, raindrops and propagation, flowers wither into the most delicate, sensual versions of themselves before returning to the earth — only to be reborn again. Witnessing this cycle of life to death to life again in the floral world is like being transfixed in a ghostlike reverie.

From soft, full, lush and supple, sexual creatures to nearly paper thin, translucent, withering, and silently, quite fragile beings, the arc of life to death is played out in the botanical world in an etheric, dreamlike manner. In the same way that sleep takes hold of us and brings us to a state of being that in some ways resembles death, flowers take on a seemingly transcendental aura as their passing quietly approaches.

Their colors appear to become deeper and richer, but increasingly less vibrant and more muted as their energy wanes. They grow languid and lethargic. And with each passing day, their vibrations lessen. They no longer rise and reach toward the sun that streams through the window. They no longer bask in its warmth and radiance. They no longer open up, revealing their most intimate selves to the world in a grand act of prideful splendor. Their days of sensuous delights and the artistry of their pollination all come to an end. Their stamen no longer stand firm and proud, their pistil and ovules become less supple and inviting. And one by one, these days of youthful and joyous fertility are replaced by a quiet and considerably more demur presence, but one that is no less elegant and captivating. Quite the contrary, it is often in these waning days, that their innermost truths are revealed to us in the most magical of ways.