What trick has coaxed this living thing
that was always branded a weed—
inconvenient, choking the ordered beds,
poisoning the roses and poppies
with its bruised, jagged green?
Where did the water come from
that unfurled a hidden bud,
one that shrank from hands eager to pluck,
leaving it scarred and curled
against the damage it had learned to fear?
Who is this who saw the curse
clinging to the thorny stem,
riddled with doubt so twined with apathy,
yet shone a light on what others scorned,
wedding a beauty long denied
and chose to look closer instead of turning away?
Why did someone choose this outcast,
uncover its wound, let it taste the sun,
urge it—effortlessly—to rise
when it had been purposely stunted for safety?
When did they claim these roots
that had stilled themselves by necessity,
because reaching meant vulnerable
and sleeping had always outweighed love?
Yet here it stands—
no longer intruder, no longer threat,
the scarred thing split open like a question answered.
The garden did not break.
It simply made room.
And what had always been just below the surface begging for release
finally understood it was never the poison—
only the promise
waiting for the right hands
to stop pulling
and begin believing