The Garden at the Edge of Sleep

The Garden at the Edge of Sleep

There is a garden at the edge of sleep.

It grows only when I close my eyes.

Flowers hum songs I once knew.

The air tastes of memory and moonlight.

A woman tends the vines with care.

Her face is mine, but older, calmer.

She hums as she prunes away regret,

and plants something new in its place.

I walk among the rows of what I lost.

Names bloom on petals, faces in leaves.

Every sorrow becomes something living,

every mistake grows softer with time.

When morning comes, it all fades away.

But I wake with soil beneath my nails,

and a peace I cannot name,

as if forgiveness had finally found me.