My Father in the Garden

There is a garden now,

that will, in time, be mine to tend -

but these hands, soft and unsure,

still reach for yours, without pause,

as they have always done

when I don't know how to begin.

I stand lost and in awe of the asking,

unsure of where to look, of what belongs where,

unclear, in fact, of how anything takes root at all.

And then there's you, turning up at my door,

turning up, always,

with herbs from home and pockets full of bluebell seeds.

I watch as you tend the dirtbed, and my chest softens

at the sight of a man so unafraid of starting again,

clearing what cannot stay with the steadiness

of someone who understands that endings are part of the work

and I think, this is how you’ve always loved:

not loudly, but in what you leave behind

for someone else to grow into.

And I remember, once, when I was heartbroken

something you had said:

that some things must die back so others can bloom.

I didn’t know how to carry that then

but here, in this small piece of earth,

I think I am learning that love can look like this:

patient, unremarkable and constant,

hands deep in the soil,

believing in what isn’t visible yet.

So yes, there is a garden now,

which will be mine, one day,

but already it is full of you.