quiet reckoning

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

At dusk the Monkey King cupped the bloom like lantern-light for vanished vows, Each petal exhaled a roster of ruins, names folded into the hush of boughs, It remembers our names, soft as ash, murmured into the river's slow mouth, Farms unlatched their memories; the moon stitched back the silhouettes of towns, It remembers our names, a reed-song passing under bridges and through crowns, The flower—

The flower exhaled a low, rocking hush that braided night into a mother's coil, Petals unspooled lull and ledger both, naming hearths until the smoke forgot its hurry, Lanterns bobbed like slow-heart answers; each name folded into the palm of sleep, The Monkey King's thumb kept the beat, patient as moon-breath, coaxing cities soft and small.

The bloom went quieter than quiet, like a candle learning to keep a secret. Its petals surrendered one small fact—homes had grown where promises were sown, not stones. The Monkey King's thumb slackened; an apology settled into his palm like a patient pulse. Night leaned in; roofs inhaled the soft syllable and held it like newly sewn cloth. The river catalogued that syllable, smoothing it into a sh

smoothing it into a shiver of sound that coaxed the reeds into speech, each syllable swung like a small bell and windows unlatched to answer, roofs folded their lids away; alleys rose, a long throat exhaling names, the bloom split its breath into many little choirs and the town learned how to wake

Hinges hummed awake; light slipped under thresholds like a curious hand, A kettle answered from the third flat, steam threading the bloom's soft glossary of names, Children pressed palms to frames and found maps there—shoeprints spelling directions home, The Monkey King kept a thumbbeat on every latch; morning came measured, parcel by parcel.

He eased his thumb, listening for balances in the thin spaces between doorframes, The bloom answered with quiet tallies: a hinge oiled, a window forgiven, a ledger folded into tea, Neighbors stepped into the count—one bowl, one mend, a child's lost shoe returned to grass, Dawn did not roar; it unfolded like a long apology, and the town learned to settle debts with small hands.