Gardening is a gamble.
Every spring I plant perennials believing that they'll reappear for years to follow. Every summer I stand in my back yard, staring at a large plant thinking...
"What is that?" "Did I plant that?"
Autumn brings no answers. Are these things that look like weeds, the weeds? Or are these things that look like weeds, the plants? Shouldn't they have blossomed into something by now? Like... lilies? Perhaps a husband?
I question the dirt. (I do) I question my gardening skills, my fertilizer choices, my motives. I question what grows when I'm not looking...
This spring smells different.
What grows when hope refuses to die? What grows from the slightest brush of your hand against mine?
Sometimes, when I remember us together, I think I only remember me... lost in a forest that used to be you.