Out of the cracked bloom,
A scent slips like ash—
Sweetness in the wreckage,
A gift born of loss.
No longer vibrant,
Its petals curl to dust,
Yet something stirs in its wake,
A fruit forged by chaos,
Ripening in the shadow of decay.
Fed by the ruin
Of what was once whole.
The bloom is gone, forgotten,
But the air remembers,
Carrying whispers of what once was,
And the promise of what remains.
In the fall, a seed was planted—
Now fruit hangs heavy,
Its sweetness undeniable,
A silent offering from a world lost
To a world remade.