This group of tall daisies sticks out onto the concrete ramp up to the Caravansary - the refurbished barn where we sit meditating. The above picture shows them on Monday. I especially liked that dying flower in the middle. The bees - fat black ones -are busy at the freshest flower, showing no sorrow for that one that is wilting away.
There is a koan that speaks to this somehow. A true Buddha is not made of wood, clay, or gold, but is found "in the inner recesses of the house." I take it that's this house of the self, our body. The true Buddha is the one that wilts. Fallible, messy, scattered mind, unwelcome obsessions, and all.