The Garden Grows Again
︎︎︎ Mitochondrial Eve
︎ Feb 27, 2026
Our home cannot close.
The hinges have rusted open.
The windows forgot to shut.
Creeping jasmine binds them broken.
The breeze lifts their heady blooms.
The walls inhale, with perfume swollen.
Winter’s bite has long been buried,
below, where roots have woken.
Come back to me. The door is open.
There are birds brooding in teacups,
and creatures giving birth in the walls.
Our pantry, forgotten, has sprouted,
sending up tender potato stalks tall.
There is wine brewing in bathtubs.
In secret hideaways, honeybees crawl.
When the sun rises, honey flows,
dripping lazily down the walls.
This is the season for thaw.
Our clothes have turned to dust.
We forgot what they were for.
They float in lazy sunbeams,
freed from decaying drawers.
A dusting on tender seedlings,
they settle on fertile floors,
creeping into worm tracks,
and nourishing mushroom spores.
We forgot what they were for.
In our bedroom is an apple tree,
moss our mattress, and ceiling
its outstretched canopy.
Its roots are eagerly searching,
digging into ancient graves.
Doors pulling and nails prying,
they peek into empty caves.
The bones are no longer sleeping.
This is the season for reaping.
Lay down with me,
and while we sleep
our dining room ripens,
and grape vines creep.
Tendrils grasp hold tenderly.
Figs grow soft as honey seeps.
Birds sing as morning rises,
upon eyes that cannot weep.
Entwined are we and dreaming deep.
We planted pumpkins on the rooftop,
and it crumbles as they grow.
The rains will wash the rafters,
and drip on mossy bed below.
The summer sun will dry us,
and light your eyes aglow
as your root coils ‘round my heart
where the living waters flow:
the place that no one knows.
Our home cannot close.
The hinges rusted long ago.
The hinges have rusted open.
The windows forgot to shut.
Creeping jasmine binds them broken.
The breeze lifts their heady blooms.
The walls inhale, with perfume swollen.
Winter’s bite has long been buried,
below, where roots have woken.
Come back to me. The door is open.
There are birds brooding in teacups,
and creatures giving birth in the walls.
Our pantry, forgotten, has sprouted,
sending up tender potato stalks tall.
There is wine brewing in bathtubs.
In secret hideaways, honeybees crawl.
When the sun rises, honey flows,
dripping lazily down the walls.
This is the season for thaw.
Our clothes have turned to dust.
We forgot what they were for.
They float in lazy sunbeams,
freed from decaying drawers.
A dusting on tender seedlings,
they settle on fertile floors,
creeping into worm tracks,
and nourishing mushroom spores.
We forgot what they were for.
In our bedroom is an apple tree,
moss our mattress, and ceiling
its outstretched canopy.
Its roots are eagerly searching,
digging into ancient graves.
Doors pulling and nails prying,
they peek into empty caves.
The bones are no longer sleeping.
This is the season for reaping.
Lay down with me,
and while we sleep
our dining room ripens,
and grape vines creep.
Tendrils grasp hold tenderly.
Figs grow soft as honey seeps.
Birds sing as morning rises,
upon eyes that cannot weep.
Entwined are we and dreaming deep.
We planted pumpkins on the rooftop,
and it crumbles as they grow.
The rains will wash the rafters,
and drip on mossy bed below.
The summer sun will dry us,
and light your eyes aglow
as your root coils ‘round my heart
where the living waters flow:
the place that no one knows.
Our home cannot close.
The hinges rusted long ago.
Mitochondrial Eve is an American mother of many children.