Watching the Garden, Slowly

I walk where the path grows faint,
and the garden opens without command.
Nothing here hastens for my sake.
The morning takes its time
with light.

The young leaves speak in their own manner,
not with sound,
but with posture—
each turned patiently
toward what nourishes it.

I learn by watching.

Once, I mistook my tending
for their survival.
I believed the rose leaned on my vigilance,
the soil required my worry.

Now I see how quietly
they have been at their work,
even when I was absent.

A stream moves through the grass,
clear of intention.
It does not ask where it is going,
yet never fails to arrive.

I sit beside it
and feel the unburdening of the heart—
as though a long-held breath
has found its ending.

The vines rest easily on the fence,
no longer gripping as though afraid of falling.
They trust the strength beneath them,
and in that trust
grow higher than before.

I think of my own heart,
how often it reached
without believing there would be enough.

Even the wild growth has its place.
Nothing is cast out for arriving uninvited.
What sprang up in hunger
is met now with light.

The garden bears no grudges.

I pause beneath a broad-limbed tree
and feel no urgency to rise.
Time sits with me
like an old companion,
content with silence.

In this stillness,
I understand what the land has been saying
all along:

That care need not wound the one who gives it.
That love, when true,
does not require my undoing.

I leave the gate open behind me,
not as neglect,
but as trust.

The garden grows—
and I, at last,
grow with it.