A voice so smooth,

yet as crushing as rubble,

came and ruptured that boisterous bubble

of the only certainty—the only truth.

A truth so old, so primeval, so real,

the garden had accepted it as what to feel.

Exhale, inhale—the mantra was repeated

as the plants held back,

leaving so much left to unpack,

so the life inside went back to being seated.

No more holding their breath—no more being excited—

the guarded garden evaded being slighted.

This denial of metal-barbed hope, 

of something the garden had wished to keep

but had only left the rain to weep,

proved this stranger was just another “nope.”

Yet as the sun began to hide once more,

the stranger remained upon the garden floor.

This has never happened before.