The Heart of the Garden

Rough to the touch, a bag of burlap,

it carries the weight of promise, a map.

I think of the garden, hands covered in dirt,

how life starts to bloom when it’s tended with hurt.

The fibers are coarse, but beneath is the dream,

a rough exterior hiding growth like a seam.

Each thread is a memory, tangled yet bright,

as I sift through the past, searching for light.