the gardener

the forest thinned as i walked.

winter still clung to the shadows,

but the ground was softer now.

the path bent around a small clearing.

someone was there.

not standing.

kneeling.

an old man with dirt on his hands

pressing something into the soil.

i watched him for a moment.

slow movements.

patient.

like he had nowhere else to be.

“planting something?” i asked.

he didn’t look up right away.

“always,” he said.

he brushed soil over the small hole

and finally stood.

his beard was grey.

his coat patched in places.

not a priest.

not a soldier.

just a man with a shovel.

“most people come to forests

to take something,” he said.

“wood.

meat.

silence.”

he nodded toward the small mound of dirt.

“i come to give something back.”

i crouched beside the spot he had just covered.

“what did you plant?”

he shrugged.

“maybe an oak.

maybe nothing.”

“you don’t know?”

he smiled.

“that’s the point.”

the wind moved softly through the branches.

“somebody planted the trees

that grew this forest,” he continued.

“they never saw them this tall.”

he leaned on the shovel.

“but they planted them anyway.”

i looked around the clearing.

towering trunks.

roots twisting through the earth.

work done by hands long gone.

“why?” i asked.

the old man studied the trees above us.

“because the world doesn’t belong

to the people standing in it,” he said.

“it belongs to the ones coming after.”

he nodded toward the castle hills

far beyond the forest.

“kings forget that sometimes.”

i didn’t answer.

he returned to digging another small hole.

slow.

steady.

“winter breaks things,” he said quietly.

“spring fixes them.”

he placed another seed in the earth.

then covered it.

carefully.

i stood there a moment longer.

watching the soil settle.

watching the forest breathe again.

then i continued down the path.

behind me,

the old man kept planting

trees he would never see grow.