Garden

My garden so barren,
its soil ever so parched,
its appearance ever so bare.
Oh how I ache upon a blossoming flower,
a clear sky
and butterflies swarming around it.
Only when I shut my eyes
can I imagine it all
and disappear from the unforgiving truth.

I work ‘till my hands split in my garden,
not with the intention of finding a flower,
but with the intention of my taking care of my soil.
Because to accept a flower,
a garden must first have everything
to sustain it.

I have forgotten all about flowers now.
All I want is to take care of my soil
and the plants I’ve grown.
I have never seen them so healthy
and I feel as though I never needed a flower.

But then it appears.
A fragile little plant.
Something about its leaves,
and it’s closed petals awaiting for winter’s end,
makes me want to nurture it.
And so I do.

I have now forgotten the other plants in my garden.
All my work goes into nurturing
the once tiny flower
that has now opened its petals
and blossomed in all radiance.
I spend all my time lingering,
staring in awe of its singularity.
I have never seen a flower so resplendent,
and I’m the only one
Who sees it for what it is.

People pass by without noticing my garden
as if there isn’t one thing special about it.
But every time I enter it myself,
my surroundings dissolve
and all importance converges
On my flower.

It has stopped growing.
Its petals begin to wither
as winter ends,
and in desperation
I put all my effort,
all my willpower
into keeping it alive.
But the flower doesn’t budge.
It vanishes back into the soil
it came from,
As if it had been erased entirely.

I never want to leave the spot in my garden—
on my soil—
where the flower once was.
I never want to see
or have another flower again.
I want my irreplacable winter flower back.
There is no point in having a garden
if my flower isn’t there anymore.

I’ve accepted another flower.
One that doesn’t need so much sun,
so much water.
One that returns the sunshine it receives,
one that nourishes my soil,
one that makes me believe
the work I put in my garden
isn’t futile.

It has taken over my whole garden,
shining in luminous glory,
making people admire it
as they walk by.
My garden has never been so full.

But at the end of the day,
I still rest my head
in the same hollow spot
where my winter flower once was.
I keep that place sealed,
never wanting my new flower
to find out it is still empty.
I keep its winter leaves hidden,
in a place I always return to,
Along with the things i once used to nurture it—
never to be used on another flower.

I can’t help but accept
that that no matter how beautiful
my current flowers are,
I will always wait
for my winter flower
to come back.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/3aOouOmA11 https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NkZUYVIfe6