Pressed Petals to Their Ears

We planted flares among the trees,
But lanterns swayed with empty ease.
The soil was warm with quiet dread,
Yet all they fed were roots of sleep.

The hills had cracks beneath their green,
We read the tremble in the leaves.
But harvest hands were soft and blind,
Singing songs to silence grief.

“This is not decay,” we whispered,
“It’s the breath before the storm.”
But they pressed petals to their ears,
And said, “The orchard’s warm.”

So let the fire crawl unseen—
Beneath their wine and woven screens.
Not with blades, but falling snow,
Did all the edges slowly go.
The orchard sleeps under ash,
And those who lit the match
Were never asked.

We hung our maps in threadbare halls,
With routes traced in invisible ink.
But halls prefer their echoes soft,
Not footsteps on the brink.

A theater filled with empty masks,
Each painted grin a quiet curse.
The fire wasn’t banned or fought—
It was invited in, rehearsed.

So let the orchard turn to dusk,
With fruit still hanging, red and hushed.
The stars won’t scream, the trees won’t cry—
And none will ask us why.
The orchard sleeps beneath the ash,
While watchers watch it die.