She chose the place with measured care,
where morning light was soft, not stark;
she turned the soil to proper depth,
and broke each clod of stubborn dark.

She marked the spacing, true and clean,
as written in the gardener’s guide;
no crowding there to choke the air,
no wandering roots to twist or bide.

The compost, aged to perfect state,
was folded in with patient hand;
she checked the moisture, pressed the loam—
it held, then loosened, as was planned.

No pest was seen, no blight foretold,
no leaf bore sign of ill or stain;
the days were warm, the nights were kind,
there came no frost, no cruel rain.

And yet—

the tender green that first appeared
grew pale before it learned to stand;
its promise faltered, slight and slow,
as though it failed to understand

the careful thought that placed it there,
the quiet hope beneath the deed—
as though the sum of all her skill
could not compel a living seed.

She knelt again, though not to plant,
but only just to touch the ground;
to lift the fragile, failing stem
and turn it, gently, all around.

No answer came from root or leaf,
no hidden cause revealed its claim;
for some things perish without fault,
and leave no reason, leave no name.

She did not weep. She filled the space.
The garden does not pause for long.

Yet something in her, faintly stilled,
acknowledged—without right or wrong—

that all her knowing, line by line,
her studied art, her practiced hand,
could never make a thing endure
that would not answer life’s command.