She set it in the selfsame ground,
no richer soil, no gentler place;
the sun fell just as it had done
upon the other’s brief embrace.

Her hand was steady, as before,
no less attentive, no more sure;
the depth was kept, the roots well-spread,
the measured spacing held secure.

She watered as the morning asked,
and watched as evening drew it in;
no secret word, no hidden art
was summoned now to bid it win.

And yet—

this one took hold.

It lifted first a tender green,
then stronger still with each new day;
it turned, as though it understood
the quiet will that bade it stay.

No sign was given why it lived
where that before had failed to be;
no mark to tell what subtle turn
had tipped the scale so silently.

She marked it, yes—but not with pride,
nor any claim of wiser hand;
for what had changed, she could not say,
nor wholly hope to understand.

Some things will flourish, side by side
with what was lost beneath the same—
as though the earth keeps separate books,
and will not answer to our name.

She knelt a moment longer there,
regarding both—the gone, the grown—

and felt, within that fragile space,
how little ever may be known.