Threshold Light

The garden gate turns green with months of neglect, its hinges singing rust when I push through. Ferns have taken the path I used to walk, fronds uncurling like secrets finding their language.

The light comes differently now, filtered through the canopy I never asked for. Everything grows toward the shade, and I've forgotten the names of things I planted.

My hands know the moss better than soil— smoothed stones hold more of me than seeds ever did. What was I looking for in straight lines? The forest doesn't ask, it just remembers.