Gambat The Barefoot Garden 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.
