There is a rosebush in my front garden. The picture that has been the screen pic on my phone practically since I got it was of a rose from that bush. The flowers are pink, a bright and fierce pink. I just went outside to look at the newly risen sun, and my eyes fell on that rosebush.
There were only two flowers that caught my eye: One, a bud, only just unfurling. The other, a rose in full bloom, the edges of its petals curled and dark and dry from age. The withered tips of its petals made it far more beautiful than it would have been whole.
I could read all sorts of poetry into this. New beginnings, the breathtaking beauty of fading glory. Time passes and we change, but beauty remains and flourishes no matter the difficulties it may face. All sorts of things.