Soul Garden

There’s a place behind my home

where silence blooms in color.

My garden.

My living journal.

My sanctuary.

Each plant here

knows me—not just by footsteps,

but by heartbeat.

The hibiscus by the gate

leans toward me in greeting.

She’s seen my tears before.

Never asked why.

Just bloomed redder.

I named the lemon tree “Amal,”

which means hope.

She bore her first fruit

the summer I almost gave up.

The marigolds whisper encouragement

in shades of gold,

and the wild jasmine hugs the evening

like it knows how tired I am.

I speak to them.

Out loud.

Sometimes in poetry.

Sometimes in sighs.

The butterflies come

as if they were invited—

and maybe they are.

Tiny dancers in the quiet.

I tell them secrets.

They flutter away like promises kept.

Some days,

when the world is too loud,

I bury my hands in the soil

just to feel something real.

I’ve laughed beside my aloe vera

and mourned beside the wilting roses.

I’ve watched a monarch land

on the same leaf

where once I placed a handwritten note—

“To whoever needs a reason to stay.”

I know every plant by name.

They know every version of me.

The girl who gave up.

The woman who didn’t.

The poet who still tries.

When I water them,

I think I’m watering myself.

And when they bloom,

I bloom a little, too

This garden doesn’t just grow flowers.

It grows comfort.

It grows me.

And maybe, just maybe,

someone else reading this

will start talking to their own flowers,

and feel a little less alone.