The rooster crows as she grimaces.

The pale grass begins to collect dew.

The night before she wept.

She wants to remember the thing she despises,

But she can’t.

There’s no time for that.

She opens her eyes to take in the day.

Light begins to creep through the open window.

Her eyes adjust.

Cool air comes in like a vicious attack.

The hairs on her arms rise with her.

She’s awake.

The garden calls her.

A command not in words because their connection calls for more

Its different.

She loves it.

She rushes to tend to it.

She grabs her supplies.

She moves with a purpose that others can hardly understand.

A smile on her face always.

The pains of yesterday hidden deep.

She’s graceful.

She talks to the garden.

“How are you my darling?”

“How can I help you today?”

They have an understanding.

She talks, it responds with growth.

Even though fresh bloom is far off.

Each day she comes back

Repeating the routine.

Feigning happiness to cloak the sadness within.

An unhealthy practice.

She doesn’t care.

She loves to watch it grow,

And asks for nothing in return.

However, the garden inadvertently gives her release.

Its beauty amazes her.

It obtains so much from nothing,

And eventually the sadness is gone.

And when the rooster crows,

She rises without hesitation.

The air, no longer cold, caresses her.

The light now shines through bright from the window

And she goes to the garden without hearing its call.

It’s spring.