The Garden Gate
I am going to the garden—
not for the tired ceremony of weeding,
not to deadhead the roses
or stake what refuses to stand.
The gate has been open all along.
I just never noticed how the hinges
don’t creak, how the path
is already worn by my own feet.
There’s a bench there I think,
or maybe just a patch of sun
that looks like rest.
The birds have been calling the hours
and I’ve finally learned their language.
I am going to the garden
because the house has become
a museum of almost,
because the kettle knows my name
too well, because the clock
keeps offering me minutes
I no longer want to spend.
The flowers there don’t need me.
They’ve been blooming without permission,
without my anxious counting of petals,
my insistence that beauty
justify itself.
I am going to the garden.
The door behind me
is already forgetting my shape.
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