The Fogged Garden

The Fogged Garden

The garden waits beneath the morning fog,

flowers bowed under the weight of dew,

I wander slowly, tracing paths we once knew,

feeling the pull of absence in every step.

Leaves rustle with secrets I cannot name,

the wind carries whispers of your laughter,

I follow them, my hands brushing the air,

longing for something that will not return.

A bench sits empty beneath the old oak,

its wood worn smooth by time and touch,

I kneel before it, tracing the lines of memory,

feeling the imprint of your hand in mine.

Sunlight breaks through the fog in golden streaks,

illuminating moments that are gone but alive,

I close my eyes, letting them wash over me,

a fragile comfort in the ache of remembrance.

The day stretches long, shadows weaving through,

I linger in this quiet sanctuary of loss,

knowing that though you are gone from sight,

you remain in the heartbeat of the garden.