What blooms after burning
She was a field–
soft, wide, aching.
He was the match,
small
but hungry.
They met
not in spring,
but in that breathless hush
before things grow–
where hope is still half-buried
beneath frost.
She held the rain
like a secret.
He wore the fire
like a promise
He never meant to keep.
She broke
without a sound
He burned
like it was prayer.
and yet–
in the blackened soil,
something small,
something stubborn
began to bloom.
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