Under the hush of midnight’s veil, it twirls—
the trowel’s silver waltz, a whispered spell.
Each crescent-blade lace traces the garden’s soul,
awakening petals in twilight’s amber scroll.

Beneath the blush of blossom hour, they rise,
throats unfurled to the hymns of fireflies’ sigh.
So let your hands be moonbeams, tender and slow—
the first breath of dawn is where seeds grow.

Carry the seeds of your quietest light,
where even the smallest act blooms bright.