Underneath a twilight garden, where the carrots hide their halos, a voice entwines with the breeze.

“When the moon leans low on grafted clouds, the celery sings, sweet sister. Have you tasted the rain it holds within its fibrous guts?”

There were hums too profound for lips, gravity defied by unseen art, a tonic of godly produce. Could one not catch these melodies swaying with winds or entwined in the spin of a cosmic find?

“A universe of gardens sleeps below us, awaiting harvest in realms unseen, yearning to blend with the crushed-mint air streaming from the lucent abyss heritage.”

Betwixt stalks of memory end blooms the silence, cradling its chlorophyll breath.