The Skeleton of the Garden

The trellis holds nothing but geometry, stark ribs against a bruised lilac sky. Everything that once clamored for the sun has folded into the iron-scented earth.

Silence is a heavy, velvet mantle draped over the dormant rosewood. The wind doesn't whistle here; it sighs, a pale ghost searching for a leaf to stir.

Under the frost, the soil remembers the weight of bees and the hum of rain. A patient alchemy is churning deep, turning yesterday's rot into tomorrow's bloom.

We walk the perimeter of what remains, our breath blooming like sudden white peonies. In the emptiness, there is a distinct shape, the architecture of a life waiting to resume.