GOD OF HERBS
In my garden,
God spoke
through leaves.
Rosemary whispered,
“Remember
what the world made you forget.”
Aloe rose beside me,
its bitter breath saying,
“I was born
to close your wounds.”
I prayed for health,
but heaven answered
with soil.
With fragrance.
With quiet medicine
hidden in plain sight.
“You die,”
He said,
“not from disease,
but from forgetting
the gifts I placed
at your feet.”
Ignorance—
the oldest poison.
Herbs—
the forgotten cure.
“Ask,”
He murmured,
“and the garden
will heal you.”
And the wind moved
as if bowing,
revealing
that God
has always spoken
in green.
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