The Unsculpted Garden

The trellis has forgotten the grape, reaching now for the ghost of a climb, iron rusted to the color of sunset and the slow, patient weight of moss.

Stone basins hold only the sky, a blue clarity where goldfish once flickered, now a mirror for the passing hawk and the silver thread of a spider's logic.

Pathways dissolve into the roots of elms, a geometry undone by the thirst of timber, where every step is a soft betrayal of the gravel that once knew its place.

Here, the air smells of wet earth and waiting, a conversation between the wind and the ivy, whispering that nothing is ever truly lost, only re-read by the light of the moon.