n ending should be like this—dignified, in bloom.
Transcend death, leaving seeds scattered in our wake.
The maguey offers a single bloom in its lifetime, known in Mexico as quiote, raised skyward on slender stalk—its final flourish before fading away. The quiote emerges like a quiet omen, a signal that the plant’s journey is nearing its end.
It rises before Matlalcueyetl, reaching toward her as if seeking recognition, a reverence in petals. A farewell given in full bloom.
Yet, the cycle does not break. When the quiote falls, it scatters a thousand seeds at the mountain’s feet—ensuring the continuity of life.