The Secret Door in My Garden: A Journey Through Soil, Shadows, and Stars #WriteAPageADay #600

My garden hides a secret door to…

The Soil

The soil is not just soil. It is history pressed into the soft folds of earth, whispering its stories in the language of decay and renewal. I dig, and my fingers become stained with the ink of forgotten roots, buried whispers curling around my knuckles like the remnants of dreams left unsaid. The soil knows the weight of footsteps from centuries past, holding their echoes in its embrace, feeding them to the mushrooms that rise like tiny prophets from the darkness. 

Worms twist and tunnel, carving secret letters beneath my palms, writing words in scripts only the dead can read. The scent of damp moss clings to my lungs, reminding me that the ground does not sleep, it only waits. The soil hums with hidden things—memories, confessions, betrayals—all tangled together in an infinite cycle of blooming and withering. I press my hands deeper, feeling the pulse of something alive, something just beneath, something watching. 

The Garden

This garden is not mine. Not really. It belongs to the wild things, the restless vines that coil around my wrists as if reclaiming me, the lilies that whisper warnings when the wind bends their stems too far. The roses bloom with teeth instead of petals, their fragrance laced with hunger. They call to me, sing to me in voices made of rustling leaves and distant thunder. 

Butterflies move like painted ghosts between the foxgloves, their wings etched with constellations I can’t name. The ivy twists and pulls, binding itself to the bones of the garden wall, drinking deep from some unseen wellspring of secrets. There is something in the air—thick, charged, electric. The trees lean in when I pass, as if they know. As if they are waiting for me to find it.

The garden is not gentle. It watches, it shifts, it breathes. It knows the hidden door is near.

The Hidden Door

A shadow cuts the light in a way that should not be. A door without hinges, without a keyhole, without a frame. It is simply there, pressed against the fabric of the garden like a held breath. I trace its edges with trembling fingers, feeling warmth where there should be cool stone. The door inhales, exhales, as if deciding whether or not to allow me passage. 

I knock once, and the air stills. Twice, and the sky darkens. Three times, and the ground beneath me softens, sinking, surrendering. The door does not open—it dissolves. Beyond it, an abyss of ink and constellations spills outward, stretching to an impossible horizon. Stars blink like watchful eyes, and I step forward, not falling, not floating, but becoming. 

Time is not the same here. The bones of forgotten stories drift in slow spirals, humming lullabies in tongues older than the moon. My breath becomes light, my pulse a ripple in the unseen waters that stretch endlessly below. The world behind me fades, yet the garden remains within, its roots still coiled around my soul.

Finally...

What is a door, if not a threshold between knowing and mystery? What is a garden, if not a map of things lost and waiting to be found? The secret door has always been here, in the hushed murmurs of petals unfolding at dawn, in the way the wind carries forgotten names between the branches. It was never about finding it—it was about being ready to step through.

I am the garden. I am the soil. I am the hidden door, and I have been waiting for myself all along.

And so I dissolve, as all things must, into the rhythm of roots and sky, into the eternal hush of secrets waiting to bloom.

#Poetry #MysticalGarden #HiddenDoor #Surrealism #NatureMystery #SecretWorlds #Dreamscape