No heaven for the withered

About the death of an old soul, like all my poetry, open to its own interpretation

Withering, softly
A flower drops to the ground
Laying, dying, and withering
Petals dropping
singles and a time
until the last gives it's
final breath of needing
Off it goes
Windward, onward
It sprouts new life
the now aged flower
continues to wither until
its finale
Picked by a passerby
finding its resting spot
before a granite epitaph
and then....nothing