Omi, with laughter deep as roots, hands cradling the swollen bulbs of kohlrabi, you stood in your Berlin garden, woven into the earth like the trees that knew your name. The sun stitched golden threads through your curls, wrinkles unfolding in joy, a face etched with seasons of giving, harvests of care, always enough, always more. You, who whispered to seedlings, sang lullabies to the wind, and taught love through the simple grace of soil beneath fingernails. I still hear you in the rustle of leaves, feel your warmth in the scent of cut herbs, your hands still guide me— soft, unseen, yet certain. Omi, your garden still grows in me, your wisdom, your kindness, your quiet strength. And when I stand beneath the sky, I know— yo...
REJECT GREED; TREAD LIGHTLY; CARE LOCALLY; RESPECT DIVERSITY ... by Martina Nicolls