The Planter of the Ghost-Seed
Extreme explosions rendered a cloud,
Before the sky turned to a leaden shroud;
When the rain was water and not a sting,
He held a pocket of forgotten things.
He saw the smoke on the far-off rim,
The way the clover was beginning to pale;
He knew the future was growing dim,
A flickering lamp in a rising gale.
He didn’t build walls or a silver vault,
He didn’t cry out at the coming fault;
Instead, he found a fractured seam,
And buried a small, persistent dream.
"I will not see you," he whispered low,
"But perhaps you’ll wait for the soot to go."
A silent promise to a dying land,
He pressed the earth with a trembling hand.
The cities crumbled to mounds of salt,
Secure in its dark and earthen vault,
The seed waited for the ashen stone
To bloom for a traveler, wandering alone.
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