Same Rain, Different Roses

One is wild roses spilling over cracked stone,

another a quiet cloister of moss and moonlight,

a third fierce poppies shouting red against the wind.

Each plot of earth carries its own secret grammar of roots,

its own dialect of petal and thorn,

its own rhythm of rain remembered in the leaves.

Yet every garden, in its singular, unrepeatable way,

leans toward the same generous sun

and offers the same quiet vow:

Here is the beauty I was given to carry.

Here is the love I learned to grow.

Take it, world—

it was never meant to stay only mine.