Untended

The garden doesn't mind your forgetting. Weeds push through the cracks in your plans, some with flowers you didn't plant, colors the seed packets promised never to produce.

Time is a thief who leaves things behind— the stone wall still remembers the hands that built it. Your grandmother's recipe lives in your hands whether you've written it down or not.

There is a kind of growth that happens in the dark, roots stretching toward water they will never see, working for a bloom that owes them nothing.

The unmown grass teaches you— abundance was never about control, it was always about letting go, about the wild thing growing stronger in its own strange shape.