In my garden,

A poem by Madeline Grace

In my garden,

I plant tulips in beds of dead
soil — roots reach dark 
dirt, tangling 

with piles of forgotten bones, 
clinging to a memory 
of something

that was, 

but no longer is. 
Willows hang heavy
heads, squirrels crack teeth

on hollow acorns,
trodding over fields 
of phantoms. 

I lay bulbs in this skeletal place, 
watch them bloom 
like they’ve got something

to prove, stretching towards a sun
that never rises.
Nobody sleeps here—

not me 
or the crickets
or the spirits

who, in death, still regret.
There is no meaning 
to make of this. 

I have no ending
for this poem.
There is just dirt

and water, seeds 
and caracasses,
metamorphosis 

and compost.
There is just the choice
to keep swallowing air.

And the crickets, 
offering us a song
for the haunting.

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