something is growing in the garden

there are no hands to tend to
the garden, plants growing skyward, roots heavy in the
soil, weeds expanding, claiming the expanse
spreading uncontrollably, quietly, untended to
here, the tomatoes grow in candle holders, the
soil sticks under my fingers and collects. the tedium of
sowing, pulling weeds on sleepy saturdays is a
distant memory, but one that clings like
sunlight to the leaves, watered with small tears welling, pooling and
collecting at the bottom.
I remember when they took the tree down, too
many rotten roots and broken branches. in the
soil and mulch years later came new life,
leaves growing pointed toward the ground, the
cycle continued.
what grows in the holes that we sow ourselves? who
waters, who tends, who keeps their weeds from spreading,
consuming. how deep the roots, now connected, how
do trees fall together when kept apart