I step barefoot
into the garden of vines
pulling green from stone.
Jasmine exhales without regret.
Roses keep their secrets.
The walls forget they were ever meant
to keep things out.
Water holds me—
quiet, unremarkable,
except for the way it softens
the edges of thinking.
The dogs nose the air,
tracking nothing but time.
No commands. No revelation.
Only the silent theology of growth.
Of things rising without reason,
with the reward of itself.
If I knew the jasmine
sang poison into the wind,
if the rose
curled its bloom
around a slow death—
I would not preach.
I would not caution.
I would remove them.
Because I have seen
what comes of gods
who let their children
bleed in the garden
and call it
a lesson.
