It's Still Life

Floriography

She went barefoot into the brittle garden, the earth creaking like old knees. Dandelion nodded its tired gold; yarrow whispered of stubborn hearts. She bent and gathered what still offered itself: Queen Anne’s Lace, sage, a handful of seed, an autumn-washed grape leaf. From a chipped jug she poured moonwater, murmured gratitude to the dust. The stems straightened, the soil sighed. Somewhere under her touch, the garden began again.