The Clockwork of a Garden

The sun pivots on a rusted hinge, drawing long shadows across the marigolds. Beneath the mulch, the beetles are winding the tight silver springs of the soil.

Water climbs the ladders of the stems, a silent, persistent machinery pumping green fire into the veins of leaves that tremble with the effort of holding the light.

Dusk arrives like a velvet gear shift. The petals fold their geometry away, locking the scent of pollen behind the intricate click of a closing bud.

Time is a root that drinks the dark. It measures the slow, heavy drip of resin and the way the fence post surrenders its straightness to the gravity of the vine.