Because of what happened
this garden is my refuge,
this silence amongst purple coleus
trailing inquisitive vinca vines.
I hear not one opinion
uttered from the plants,
just their perky faces toward morning light,
their spines straight with innocence
and disregard for my life,
or possibly standing tall
to demonstrate graceful endurance.
Only their lives matter—being God’s
earthly ambassadors, holding
no one accountable for silliness.
Even the overgrown fern
showers delight from its crowded
nest of green fronds,
drooping, bowing to reality.
Time, I say.
Time they tell me is needed
for strides of growth. Time and rain—
rain from dark clouds pouring
into patient soil, rearing
the pointed caladium leaves of fiery red
and starlight of white impatiens’ flowers.