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.