The Unmowed Corners

In the margins where no one kneels to pull, wild garlic blooms its white stars, clover threads through neglected grass. The honeybees know this place exists.

They navigate by scent alone, by the soft rebellion of what grows when hands forget to shape it, when edges blur into something unnamed.

A spider hangs her silk between the stems, each strand catching light like a secret told only to those who stop to listen— the grass speaking back to the earth.

Nothing here answers to a schedule. The flowers open when ready, the roots drink what rain provides, and somewhere in this small wilderness, a seed remembers how to become.