The earth remembers what the living forget—
every tear watered deep into the roots,
every whispered goodbye stitched into moss,
every unmarked grave tucked beneath the hawthorn trees.

They call this a garden, but it is a reliquary,
a place where lost wars bloom into briar roses,
where grief turns to lichen on the ribcage of the hills,
where the wind hums the names no one else speaks.

I walk among the marrow-blossoms,
barefoot on the sighing soil,
and I feel it—
the memory of battles I thought no one witnessed,
the soft hands of the earth cradling my invisible wounds.

Here, in this bone garden,
I am neither lost nor forsaken.
I am remembered.
I am rooted.
I am becoming something wild, something sacred—
something the living would not recognize,
but the earth always knew.