I am gold that arrives before green
a promise too precious to last

**

The leaf becomes the flower
but the flower forgets its name by dusk

**

She wears her richest crown in death
burning brighter as she fades

**

They rise robed in sun-fire & dew
kneeling only to the wind

**

Born of earth & light
they carry sermons in silence

**

The tree bowed before the storm’s voice
and the flowers lit like prophets
What fell made beauty vanish

**

Nothing golden stays
yet gold returns again
Is the lesson in its going
or in its promise to come back?

**

Petals fall like prayers
onto grass already kneeling

**

Every blaze begins with a promise
Every bloom ends in frost

**

In the beginning, there was a color, too early, too bright, speaking promises it could not keep. It shimmered on the lips of the first leaf, then vanished into green. Some say that color was the voice of youth, others say it was God dressing up as sunlight.

**

The leaf turned to flower, then forgot it had ever been leaf at all. Dusk, that quiet thief, erased its name. Memory became compost. Still, someone always remembered. A crow, perhaps. Or the dirt.

**

Autumn arrived in a gown made of surrender. Her footsteps were soft, but her crown blazed with an honesty too loud for summer. She taught the trees how to bow, how to let go with grace. She taught the children of spring—those sun-crowned pilgrims in green and gold—how to kneel.

**

And they did. Every daisy, every dandelion bowed their petaled heads to the sermon of the wind. They spoke in a dialect older than prayer. Their message was gratitude. The kind of grace that doesn’t need an audience to shine.

**

Then came the storm. The tree bent low; not in fear, but reverence. Thunder chanted, and the flowers ignited like saints. The hail that fell was not ice, but memory crystallized. The sky wrote its grief in wind-script across the meadow, and all things paused to listen.

**

Still, we say: Nothing golden stays. And yet it returns.

**

The lesson is not in permanence, but in repetition. In the echo. The miracle isn’t that spring happens; it’s that we dare to believe it will happen again.

**

So the petals fall, quiet as psalms. The grass grieves and rejoices. And we, the foolish gardeners of hope, keep planting. Not because we are certain of the bloom, but because we are defiant in the face of death.

Because we believe the dirt remembers us.

And the dirt does.

It sings us back in flowers.