No one comes to see my garden,
to sit,
to breathe among its silences,
to stay long enough
for the light to change.
No one truly sees my flowers,
how deep I must dig
to draw their hidden waters,
how far I must reach
to dip my brush
in the colors of becoming.
No one asks,
How are you—truly?
For truth itself hides
in the hollows between words,
where silence roots
and blossoms unseen.
No one reads my poetry,
that secret crossing
where my soul empties itself
into the greater soul
of all that lives and dreams.
A moment of joy,
a single blooming,
evaporates
the instant it begins.
A glass of wine forgets itself
in the first sip,
its warmth returning
to the vine’s lost sunlight.
And still,
I tend the unseen garden,
I pour,
I paint,
I write,
as if the act itself
were the presence I await.
Perhaps the silence
is not neglect, but listening.
Perhaps the emptiness
is love before form.
Perhaps the flowers bloom
not for eyes,
but for the witness within,
that eternal seer
who breathes through all,
who watches through me,
and names the nameless
through the pulse of my hand.
