10/09/2026
The Locked Garden
Behind the old stone, the garden sleeps,
where roses remember the hands that are gone;
the iron gate keeps its rusted keep,
and weeds write green letters into the dawn.
No footstep enters, no window calls,
yet apples still redden beneath the wall;
the rain has the key to the garden walls,
and the wind knows the names of them all.
And there, in the dark where the wild things grow,
time turns its lock with a patient hand, for gardens may close, but never quite know
that roots have no doors, and dreams need no land.
