The Shrinking Flower

Beneath a sky of iron ash,

a flower folded into itself,

petal by petal,

as though the earth had whispered

a terrible secret into its roots.

Once it drank the morning whole,

held sunlight in its trembling veins,

but now it shrinks,

a slow surrender,

a silent retreat from the world.

The forest watches without grief.

Trees have learned that everything bends

toward decay.

The river drags dead leaves downstream

like forgotten names.

And humans,

we are not so different.

We bloom with hungry hands,

stretching toward crowns of gold,

toward promises carved from smoke.

We call it ambition,

call it destiny,

while our roots choke on the poison

we pour into our own soil.

The flower knows.

Its shrinking is not weakness,

but recognition.

It has seen the worms inherit kings,

seen monuments become nests for crows,

seen empires dissolve into dust

that settles gently upon its petals.

Night gathers.

The flower curls tighter,

a clenched fist of fading crimson.

The moon hangs above

like a blind white eye,

watching the endless rehearsal

of birth and ruin.

And in the darkness,

the flower becomes a mirror.

Its withering reflects our own:

the quiet erosion of wonder,

the slow collapse of kindness,

the way we shrink from each other

when the cold winds come.

By dawn,

there is almost nothing left.

Only a stem,

thin as regret,

and a shadow rooted in the earth.

Yet beneath the blackened ground,

something still listens.

A seed.

Small, patient,

drinking the sorrow of the world.

Waiting for another season

to make the same beautiful mistake

of blooming.