Garden Verses: The Gnome's Vigil

They don’t see me.
They never do.

Not the child with the sticky fingers
and juice on his shirt.
Not the mower man with his loud green beast
and his hatred for dandelions.
Not even the couple who argued here last spring
about whether love was “still enough.”

(He left.
She wept into the sedum)

No—they pass by.
But I see everything.
And I remember.

I was placed here
—planted, really—
before the first bloom dared poke its head
through this black immortal clay.
I’ve watched roots tangle.
I’ve seen bees sleep
drunk and trembling in foxglove throats.

Once, a rabbit nuzzled me.
Another time,
a man stood in this very grass
at sunrise,
shirtless,
and a look in his eye
like he belonged to the morning.

He spoke aloud—
not to me, exactly.
But I listened anyway.

He said the word “love”
like it was an apology
turned into vow.
And the wind that day
carried more than pollen.

So I stay.

Not because I must.
But because someone should.

Because every garden needs a witness.
And every man deserves a place
where his voice is not just heard—
but kept.

Forever, if need be.

And I keep it.