From where the garden grows

I used to run.
Miles at a time,
track lanes,
cross-country trails,
roads that did not care
where I had been
or what I was carrying.

I ran until thought broke apart.
Until anger lost its teeth.
Until grief fell behind me,
panting somewhere in the dark.

I ran from my problems,
from my history,
from every wound
that learned my address.
Every old rage
with my name in its mouth.

But I do not run anymore.

Now I garden.

And it is different,
the way survival changes shape
when the body finally refuses
to flee.

Gardening is not an escape.
No, it is waiting with a shovel.

It is letting the thing
come close enough
to recognize its face.

It is standing still
while the past drags itself
up the path,
mud on its shoes,
lies in its teeth,
hands full of evidence.

And when it reaches me,
I do not plead.

I stand patiently,
shovel in hand,
dirt under my nails,
hole already dug.

And only then does it realize
it was never chasing me.
That ended long ago.
I simply let it believe it.
Let it follow.
Let it arrive.
Let it step willingly
onto my ground,
where the hole
was already waiting.

The soil is my cover.
The roots know what happened.
The flowers,
loyal as always,
bloom with their mouths shut.

Call it healing.
Call it hiding.
Call it whatever makes it easier
to walk past the garden
and admire the color.

I know what is buried there.

Every bed has a body.
Every bloom has a history.
Every beautiful thing
is feeding on something
I refused to keep carrying.

I believe rage,
when justified,
can never truly die.
And I do not think
it should have to.

The fire did not leave me.
I only learned
to stop letting it burn
everything around me.

I learned to give it soil.
To give it roots.
To give it somewhere beautiful
to go.
To take what once destroyed
and make it feed
what grows.

It does not stop the past
from looking for me.

But it does make it harder
to find me.

Harder to accuse me
when my hands are full of dirt
and everything I buried
keeps coming back
as flowers.

And I have learned
there are problems
you cannot outrun.

So I stopped running.

I let them catch me
.
Then I put them under.

And grew them into flowers.