ROOT — THE POTATO

 

The garden grew quiet.

Not empty.
Not gone.

Just deeply still.

 

Above, the night was long.

Snow rested where it fell.
Moonlight did not move.

 

Below the ground,
Root waited.

Round and steady,
held in the dark.

 

The soil pressed close.

Not tight.
Not heavy.

Warm enough.

 

Nothing reached.

Nothing searched.

The garden kept its breath.

 

The Deep Pantry held everything
that had returned.

Leaves.
Stems.
What had softened.

 

Root did not change.

He did not need to.

The earth had already made room.

 

The world paused.

The night was as long as it would ever be.

Everything rested.

 

Below the stillness,
something began.

Too small to see.
Too early to name.

 

Root remained.

Held.
Safe.

The dark was not empty.

 

Scent stayed close to the ground.

Stored.
Waiting.

 

Nearby, the Soil Keeper attended.

Her greenstone spade
held no shine at all.

The earth was enough.

 

The night did not hurry.

The garden did not ask.

 

Root rested on.

Nothing was required.

 

Vegetables arrive as they are.
The garden makes room.

 

A Smelling Note

This story is about noticing.
As you read, you might pause
and notice a small breath.
Not to find a smell—
just to notice the air.
There is no right way to do this.
Listening with your body is enough.

The soil holds without gripping.

Observation Line

In this garden, the potato is firm and still.
The soil around it feels close and warm.
The air above is quiet.

 

Still soil. The quiet continues. Holding remains.