Ah, to be young and in love. A fresh garden, bereft of weeds, free of pain, filled with promise budding green from the Earth. Youth blinds them to the death which looms distant in the horizon, a dark storm far from the minds of the two trees at the garden’s heart. These lovers are strangers yet, beautiful and beguiling to one another no doubt, but love is built in time. Not in a moment and not at the surface. In its depths, wounds are made, scars unearthed.
Ah, to be aged and in love. A maturing Eden, where these two trees sprout saplings of their own, grown in their shadows. As they ripen, and their branches finally touch, understanding between them is born. They are not as well suited, or as well fitted as they thought. They sap strength from one another and these beautiful lovers, as they age, find that true love consists of hurt; strengthens through compromise; is tested by betrayal and codified by acceptance. Flowering roses wither and grey, and perfection’s myth fades in favor of the truth. That no two souls are perfectly matched, nor are any two lives, shared or separated, easy. Now they see the death coming closer, the dark predation already encumbers them and bit by bit, life’s pendulum swings closer to the end.
Ah to be old and in love. In a garden ringed by death, true soulmates find each other. Two hearts grown together over the course of decades. Two trees, gnarled and tangled, in a forgotten garden. Their saplings uprooted and in new homes of their own. Their roots deep, ensuring that even after they die, they will stay upright. In the silence of their decaying word echoes an unspoken promise: they will stand together, even as their Earth crumbles to dust. Weeds consume them in a world overgrown, and yet, even in ending, they are happy. For they pass into oblivion together. Which for all their wounds, their misgivings, their failures, is better than fading alone.