I started growing a garden
one of the best I'd ever had.
My very first,
grown wild and natural.

I failed to see the weeds
slowly choking it from behind.
And it suffocated the garden
time after time.

Then suddenly, there was no garden,
just silence and then dust.
No warning,
no fading,
no crumble,
collapse,
or rot.

No sign to brace for mourning,
no moment to adjust...
Nothing left to grieve,
except all that was.

Its blossoms bloomed as friendship,
each petal bright and true.
The roses held our laughter,
lilacs eased our cries,
and daisies offered humor
beneath clear blue skies.

But now it's gone to silence,
and my hands remain bare,
covered in the dust,
grasping for the something
that once had rooted there.

I dig into the ashes,
search the soil,
even the air.
begging,
pleading,
aching for a sign
a sprout, a stem, a rewind in time.

Hoping still,
the dust rewinds
Whispering to it one last time
hoping still something sprouts
even a little
to grow from this ground.