Death Is a Gardener
Death never hated anyone.
He was simply given
the oldest garden
in existence.
He does not carry
a sword.
He carries
a handful of seeds.
Every time
someone leaves this world,
he kneels quietly
where they took
their final breath
and buries
another memory.
The living
never see him work.
They only wake
to find flowers
growing
where laughter
once lived.
People call them
grief.
But grief
was never meant
to punish us.
It was the garden's
way of remembering.
Some flowers bloom
for a season.
Others survive
a lifetime.
A mother's embrace.
A father's advice.
The echo
of a friend's laughter.
The scent
of an old home.
A promise
kept too late.
No two flowers
are ever the same,
because no two souls
leave behind
the same story.
Children wonder
why flowers
grow upon graves.
They think
someone planted them.
They are right.
Death did.
Not to celebrate
an ending,
but to remind the world
that love
never leaves
empty ground.
Sometimes
the flowers grow
so heavy
that they become tears.
Sometimes
they bloom
into smiles
without warning.
Years later,
you hear
a familiar song,
smell
a forgotten perfume,
or laugh
at a memory
you thought
time had buried.
That is simply
another flower
finding the sunlight.
Death never asks
to be forgiven.
He knows
his footsteps
are feared.
Yet every evening,
before the stars awaken,
he walks
through his endless garden,
watering each memory
with silence.
Because even he believes
that those
we have loved
should never
stop blooming.
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