Ah, a garden. Peaceful, isn’t it? Sunlight dappled through leaves, the gentle hum of bees, a place to grow things — tomatoes, basil, maybe even redemption. But not all gardens are rooted in earth. Some grow in the shadows. Some are fed by memory. And pain. And, sometimes… forgiveness.
Enter Jeremy Parsons. A Texas native. A singer-songwriter. A man of the land — quite literally. You see, Jeremy was raised by a father who loved gardening. Not as a hobby, but as a life’s work. Dr. Jerry Parsons, the horticulturist. He passed on more than knowledge about plants. He planted something else. Something that would take years to bloom.
Now Jeremy, many years and many miles away, finds himself in East Nashville. And one day, through a kitchen window — there she is. A woman named Brielle. Kneeling in the dirt. Tending to her own garden. Innocent enough… or was it? Because in that moment, Jeremy saw more than just a neighbor pulling weeds. He saw himself. He saw his father. And suddenly, the soil beneath his feet was shifting.
From this quiet epiphany came a song. A simple tune, really. Nothing flashy. No pounding drums or soaring choruses. Just an acoustic guitar, a melody that wanders gently like a breeze through the trees, and a voice — his voice — worn like an old jacket, warm and familiar, but hiding a few tears in the lining.
He called it “The Garden.”
At first listen, it’s gentle, tender. But listen again. Really listen. There’s something else. A question. Many questions. “Does it wither when you’re feeling blue?” he asks. And it’s not just about the garden anymore, is it? It’s about you. It’s about how we care for ourselves, or don’t. About the work we do to hold it all together — mentally, emotionally — when no one else is watching.
Who among us hasn’t neglected the soil of the soul from time to time? Who hasn’t let something wither?
And yet, Jeremy’s not accusing anyone. He’s not preaching. He’s just… noticing. Observing. Gently prodding. Like a friend sitting next to you, nudging your elbow with just enough pressure to say, “Hey… how’s your garden doing?”
There’s an intimacy here that feels almost voyeuristic. Like you’ve stumbled across someone else’s journal and can’t look away. Because it’s also your journal. The lines he sings — “You try and fail and try again” — they’re universal. But they don’t come across as clichés. They feel lived-in. Earned.
Musically, Parsons keeps it sparse. No layers to hide behind. No studio tricks to mask imperfections. And that’s the point. This isn’t a performance. It’s a confession. One that echoes the dusty honesty of Townes Van Zandt, the soft ache of John Prine, the gut-level sincerity of Jason Isbell — artists who don’t sing at you, they sing with you.
And maybe that’s what makes “The Garden” so quietly powerful. It doesn’t demand attention. It earns it. Slowly. Carefully. Like something that’s grown, not built.
But of course, every garden has its thorns.
Because as much as this song soothes, it also unsettles. It asks you to take stock of yourself. Of what you’ve planted. Of what you’ve forgotten to water. Of what you’re still hoping might bloom, even in the cracks.
And that — right there — is where Jeremy Parsons wins. Not with volume. Not with theatrics. But with a quiet truth whispered in your ear when you weren’t expecting it.
Rating: 9/10
So, in the end, what is “The Garden”? A song, yes. A memory. A message. Maybe even a mirror. One man’s moment of reflection that gently, insistently, becomes our own.
Because sometimes, to grow, you have to dig. And when you dig… you never know what you’ll find.
–Kevin Morris