The Garden with the Open Gate

For years
the garden believed
every storm in the valley
was its weather.

When winds rose beyond the hills
it tightened its roots.
When clouds gathered over distant fields
it held its breath.

Travellers leaned on the fence
and the soil listened.
Their stories fell like rain
and the garden drank
until the ground stayed heavy even in sunlight.

It called this caring.

One season
the gate was left open.

Not locked.
Not guarded.

Simply open.

The storms still crossed the sky,
but the garden noticed
some passed without touching the leaves.

Some rains belonged to other rivers.
Some thunder belonged to other mountains.

The soil did not harden.
It did not turn away.

It only stopped claiming
every shadow as its own.

Visitors still came.

The garden offered shade
without moving its roots toward them.
It gave water
without becoming the well.
It listened
without storing every echo in the earth.

And when travellers left,
the ground remained light.

The valley did not grow quieter.
The world did not grow kinder.

But the garden finally learned:

To feel the weather
is not to become the sky.

And care,
when it is real,
does not require
holding the clouds in place.