There was a man who cared for nothing but his garden
A man who never married and was never truly loved
That is not to say he wasn't ever in love himself
These feelings were never mutual
And over time feelings dissolve into nothing
The man's garden was his sanctuary
A massive stretch of his land was devoted to it
Bordering on obcenity
He spent days planting and watering
He would scout the temperatures and buy flowers for each season
The winter was his least favorite time of the year
He would pick his favorite flower and bring it inside
Plot it at the window so it could see sunlight and he could see it
In the spring he would overhaul the garden and start fresh
At night, and on occasion, he could be seen whispering to his plants in the darkness
Urging them to grow; Urging them to whisper back
His garden sustained him in every way
From it he would grow strawberries, pumpkins, carrots
He even, to his own suprise, had the bigginings of an apple tree
But the tiny tree that was growing had massive roots
They strangled his other plants and flowers when he was not around
During a particularly busy week at work he came back to his garden
Only to find a thriving tree and several dead plants
In a rage he uprooted the leviathan and threw it in the woods
He never again let something destroy his garden
No one was allowed there either; it was his
And as he grew older, creakier, he realized that the garden would die without his touch
He tried, in pain, to maintain it
But it was unbearable suffering and the work load immense
And when the men came to move his things
Before leaving for his new home
He refused to make eye contact with the garden
Now he sits, or paces by the windows in slippers
Sometimes muttering, sometimes in a stiff ponder
The only thing that ever loved him was gone
But every now and then
When the light would hit the trees across the street just right
And he could hear the whisper in the breeze through the open window
He would crack a solemn smile
Close his eyes
And remember a time when there was a garden.
