When a flower is snipped from the stem it yearns to return. It leeks life blood from the wound hoping to cling back to the root that once nourished it... Made it whole. The once sharp pain of the pruning sheers deadens into a long slow throb and the stem begins to dry. The petals fall first, shriveling quickly as their delicate sensitivity fails from dehydration, the Essence of life ebbing. When they finally despair and drop the stem hangs on, retaining its moisture more efficiently without the clinging tenderness that made the flower so vulnerable. Yet it too stiffens as it drys, watching it's once beautiful, fragile individuality turn to dust. First the epidermis hardens as the precious moisture is reclaimed by the atmosphere. The hard scales of death journey inward until all that remains is the rod of shriveled cells, mummified by the isolation. The loss of the root, the soul of the flower, overcomes even the toughest of blooms, rendering it at last to the shell of its once glorious self.
So the tail of loss is told.