The soil had been tended with care,
each seed placed with eager expectancy.
There was a time when rain felt like presence,
when something real stirred beneath the surface.
The garden held promise,
even as the leaves began to dull.
Roots reached into tired ground,
searching for what was no longer offered.
Some things fade
not with storms,
but with silence.
The gate stayed open.
No one came.
Water was given
long after planting had stopped.
The truth hid in the weeds.
This was no longer shared earth.
One had stopped growing here,
long before the other knew to stop tending.
From the neighbors’ garden,
there is radiance now,
joy spoken often and loud—
as if to prove
the soil only spoiled in specific presence.
Now, among the overgrowth,
a figure learns to move differently.
To let go of vines
that only pull
without offering bloom.
Steps begin to press into new ground.
There is caution.
There is attention.
There is grief.
There is the slow return
of something like clarity.
And perhaps,
when the seasons shift again,
there will be room
to learn the names
of those who tend nearby.
But for now,
nurturing the soil within,
and the roots already held close.