The Garden, in its Absence

In its absence, the garden
Seems to have no purpose.
The memory of it
Is clear,
Yet there is no life
In the memory itself.
We may dream of the garden and hope
That it still exists.
We may believe that it is the same
As we remember it.
Though, of course, it won’t be.
Something will be different:
A stone upturned
A tree a year older
That flower that used to grow in the corner -
Long dead.
A bird will have left
And moved somewhere else.
Other birds will sing
And something new will crawl in the grass.

My NaPoWriMo Day 22 poem.