Decapitated Blossoms

The last blossom of spring falls in contrast to a head taken by the executioner’s swing.
The blow of the wind and the blow of a blade are different but something falls just the same;
to the ground,
where the king of carrion patiently waits,
here,
in this ephemeral place,
many more falls, will occur,
rolling we know, as rhythms do.
Here we are.
There we were,
for a mere twinkling of an eye.
The blossom floats.
The head does drop,
mortality sleeps,
and hubris dies.

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the images in this post.