A Note From Forget-Me-Nots

A guest reflection by Sienna Rohrer, on decomposition and clinging.

Sienna Rohrer
Ramble On · Sept 12, 2026

While clearing many of the flower beds at Beeworthy Farms the last couple months, I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of decomposition:

How it’s constantly happening all around us in nature and yet, how we, ever hell-bent on distinguishing ourselves from nature, do not allow much room for decomposition in our lives.

We are terrified of aging and death and endings of any kind — relationships, jobs, living situations, versions of ourselves, and businesses that no longer serve us.

We often view death as a dramatic ending, rather than a transitional horizon. Capitalism doesn’t leave much of a blueprint for ending a business in a healthy, celebratory way once the proclaimed mission has been achieved.

I continue to find it challenging to welcome endings in my life, even as I feel the discomfort of contorting myself and clinging to the thing that seems so impossible to release.

The irony is that new life — that nutrient-rich, fertile soil primed for healthy, fresh growth — is only possible through decomposition.

Similarly, the sunlight required for new growth is only accessible by cutting out the old to create space for light to pour down on the new.

This might mean pruning tall tree branches with lots of avocados (like we’re doing at Avocado Bliss Farm) or pulling out vibrant celosia flowers that are mostly done but still have beautiful blooms (like at Beeworthy Farms) — and then thanking them and putting them all on the compost pile.

And I think that’s the hardest part — saying goodbye when there’s still so much beauty and life present.

So here’s a little poem — a message, rather — from the flower fields this week.

While clearing the season’s end flower beds,
I notice the forget-me-not seeds — so aptly named —
are clinging to every surface of me.

Like unrelenting velcro of the fairy dust world,
these seemingly delicate, whimsical seeds
are utterly stuck on my socks, sleeves, neck scarf, hairs...

They cling to me as if their life depends on it.
And, well, considering the process of seed dispersal,
I suppose it does.

So, as I painstakingly extricate each seed from my body between two fingers,
I wonder:
What do I cling to?
And does my life depend on it?

If you have a reflection you’d like to share in this space, write to david@cardifftinyfarm.com.