Torrential downpour seeps through the open gate, Bare feet on the rain-wet stone, The Oak Room hums with silent war, The air hung taut with inherited hate. Curtains drawn, the breath is shallow, Hands like roots meet skin grown hollow. Hear me, though your tongue is still — The earth remembers every will. Rosemary smoke through the tightened air, Rain-scented lungs, the window bare. Fingers on the cooling skin, Eyes glaze over with the river’s look. No cry, no struggle, no final blow — Only the soil’s pull from far below. I close her eyes, seal the flesh to light, Open the gate for the root’s invite. Compost the rope that binds the hands, Bury the fire, let it feed the lands. All things return, all things renew — The soil drinks the blood of what we knew. Tongues like thorns in the kitchen door, Blood-born voices at silent war. “Fight!” one cries, “Rest!” the other weeps, While the third just clings to the bed where she sleeps. I do not choose the sword or shield, I choose the field where wounds can yield. Bring your blame, bring your spite, bring the knife of your tongue. Bring the bone, bring the scrap, bring the flower gone black. We will grind it to earth until green devours black. A seashell, a flower, a ring, a word, Offer them to the ground, let the roots be stirred. This pouch will sleep beneath her bower, In spring, your grief will bloom as flower. Compost the rope that binds the hands, Bury the fire, let it feed the lands. All things return, all things renew — The soil drinks the blood of what we knew. Bury the fight in the garden’s mouth, Bury the fire that burns you south. Rot the rope until it bleeds to loam, Compost the hands that would drag her home. I am still mad. I am still raw. But the soil has swallowed the sharpest claw. A seed sleeps now where anger lay, It may rise in green, come some dark day. Rosemary smoke through the tightened air, Rain-scented lungs, the window bare. Fingers on the cooling skin, Eyes glaze over with the river’s look. No cry, no struggle, no final blow — Only the soil’s pull from far below. I close her eyes, seal the flesh to light, Open the gate for the root’s invite. Compost the rope that binds the hands, Bury the fire, let it feed the lands. All things return, all things renew — The soil drinks the blood of what we knew. Some seeds only sprout in the dark. Some gates only open in rain. The Oak Room is empty, the rope is torn, And from your death the roots are born. All things return. All things decay. All things renew. All things bloom.
