She turned the soil with steady hands,
Poured water deep into the sands.
The sun she summoned, the roots she fed,
Yet love was absent; the garden bled.
Her tools were sharp, her grip was firm,
But care was cold, and hearts don’t learn.
She mapped the rows, she marked the yield,
But warmth won’t grow in frozen fields.
The blooms were pale, their fragrance thin,
Their petals bruised by the storms within.
For every leaf that dared to thrive,
A shadow whispered: Not alive.
She wonders now, as autumn nears,
Why harvest brings such bitter tears.
She gave the sun, the rain, the soil,
But seeds will choke where hearts recoil.
The earth remembers, it always knows—
The truth of hands that only pose.
She calls it nurture, she calls it care,
But love once absent lingers there.
The garden wilts; she reaps her past.
The soil gave back what she cast.
A gardener’s fate is always clear:
What’s sown in pain returns in fear.