Book of Eucalypt

The fence leans in the way old things do when they’ve seen enough,
with flaking paint releasing the old wood so it can listen harder.
Its once-white slats catch the last of the light while the garden,
unconcerned with borders, carries on doing what it does best:
growing a little wild and a little romantic.

This is the hour fairies seem to prefer.
You don’t see them arrive, but you notice the change:
how the gathering of creeping roses look warmer,
as if they’ve been touched by something affectionate,
and the air itself has decided to stay a while longer.

Low to the ground, soft purples gather like quiet thoughts.
Gnomes are already at work here—
straightening nothing, tending everything,
murmuring to roots about patience and love.

Nothing rushes.
Stems cross, pause, and cross again,
choosing closeness over order.
The path doesn’t insist on being followed.
The rose bushes don’t need to explain themselves.

As the light thins, the garden becomes gentler,
more suggestive than certain.
A place where romance isn’t dramatic,
just present—
in the way things lean toward one another,
in the way magic doesn’t announce itself,
and in the quiet understanding
that this is exactly how it’s meant to be.