They Never Loved The Roots
In spring,your laughter held the sound of running water.You bloomed without effort.Light sat on your shoulderslike it had always belonged there.
The birds sang your arrival.The bees circled like worship.Every glance you gavewas mistaken for sunlight.
And they came with hands outstretched,with mouths full of admiration,as if they had found somethingeternal.
They praised the flowers,not knowingyou had buried pieces of yourselfto grow them.No one askedwhat the blooming cost.They did not stayfor the silenceafter the music.Then autumn arrived—as it always doesand your petals felllike soft confessionsonto the cold earth.The light shifted.Your branches stood bare.And suddenly,you were not what they remembered.Suddenly,you required patience.Stillness.A love that does not vanishat the sight of emptiness.But they only knew how to lovewhat opened.What performed.What gave without question.They did not love the soil in youonly the bloom.And so they left.Mistaking seasonfor self.But you—you are not spring trapped in a body.You are rootstwisting through stone.You are what surviveswhen everything elsehas fallen away.Let them go.Let them return to gardensthat do not grieve.You are still hereeven stripped bare.Even unspectacular.Even undone.And when the light returns,as it always doesyou will bloom again.Not for them.Not for praise.Only for the part of youthat never askedto be seen.
johnthegriot.com/poems/they-never-loved-the-roots