daylight diminishes with each passing day, golden sunlight bathes the early evenings with a subtle scent of warmth. I trust that you are well.
snow begins to fall; it collects over the garden like antique film. memories reorganize like the seasons. i watch the garden through a gap in white curtains and become buried in the hibernation of ferns. my mind can be sleeping and seeing. a withering, muffled underground. december light holds wisps of summer heat, it echoes in blank pastel sky like a church bell.
of all the many things in the little garden, i regard the ferns the most. planted when i was an abstract idea, we watch each other grow. old friend, ancestor, i talk to you in my head about the memory of all things.
coiled in fractal spirals, scenes unfold across the garden in antediluvian spirals. an explosion of twisting green tangles and wisps, a dusting of spores. whispering buds relax their clenched fists in sunken earth and seek the taste of light. they capitulate to nothing but the crumbling red brick walls. you are me, as i am you.
your green captivates me; leaves that glow from within. the colors stretch and soak in the sun. i see them in a clairvoyant crystal gaze, prophecies are being written. the garden book expands and hooks to the fabric of the curtains, flickering from winter to spring.
i have not seen another person in months. i am not in the garden, the garden is me. leaves swell with my breath, growing and shrinking like the stars.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 7:46 PM UTC
daylight diminishes with each passing day, golden sunlight bathes the early evenings with a subtle scent of warmth. I trust that you are well.
snow begins to fall; it collects over the garden like antique film. memories reorganize like the seasons. i watch the garden through a gap in white curtains and become buried in the hibernation of ferns. my mind can be sleeping and seeing. a withering, muffled underground. december light holds wisps of summer heat, it echoes in blank pastel sky like a church bell.
of all the many things in the little garden, i regard the ferns the most. planted when i was an abstract idea, we watch each other grow. old friend, ancestor, i talk to you in my head about the memory of all things.
coiled in fractal spirals, scenes unfold across the garden in antediluvian spirals. an explosion of twisting green tangles and wisps, a dusting of spores. whispering buds relax their clenched fists in sunken earth and seek the taste of light. they capitulate to nothing but the crumbling red brick walls. you are me, as i am you.
your green captivates me; leaves that glow from within. the colors stretch and soak in the sun. i see them in a clairvoyant crystal gaze, prophecies are being written. the garden book expands and hooks to the fabric of the curtains, flickering from winter to spring.
i have not seen another person in months. i am not in the garden, the garden is me. leaves swell with my breath, growing and shrinking like the stars.
