by Jennifer Freya Helgeson
The garden is going first—
edges softened,
then color unfastening from its names.
I stand at the window
and can no longer tell
leaf from shadow.
Green is only brightness now,
without shape.
I used to know where everything was.
Now I reach for it
and find air.
The tomatoes are still there,
I think.
I do not look twice.
***
Jennifer Freya Helgeson’s creative writing explores themes of memory, loss, nature, and human resilience. She has authored several peer-reviewed publications, co-edited textbooks, and published in several media outlets. Jennifer has a poetry chapter book forthcoming (early 2027, Finishing Line Press). When she’s not writing, Jennifer enjoys gardening, dancing, and spending meaningful time with her loved ones. Follow her @jfhelgeson on Instagram.
Cypress Editorial 