Anarchy in the Garden of Forgetfulness

Seeds of rebellion are planted in the soil of Zen —
flowers grow with no names,
birds fly in spirals that defy logic,
and the gardener forgets his tools.
The sun rises without permission,
and shadows dance with their own reflection.
Can you stop the wind with a thought?
You cannot.

In this wild haven,
chaos blooms like dandelions in spring,
colorful and untamed,
each petal a whisper of freedom,
each stem a defiance of order.
The air is thick with possibility,
where rules bend like branches,
and the ground pulses with life
that refuses to be categorized.

The gardener wanders,
lost in the labyrinth of growth,
his hands stained with earth,
cradling the essence of what is
and what could be.
He listens to the laughter of leaves,
the chatter of roots beneath the surface,
as the garden breathes in unison,
a symphony of unremembered dreams.