river replies

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—

He pressed a petal to granite; its filigree learned the patience of chisels, Syllables sank like pebbles into the ledgers of rock, rain polishing each name into claim, Hamlets gathered around carved lines, reading the bloom's verdict as both law and altar, Where petals became inscription, the river taught itself to spell them with its current.

A hairline opened where petal met stone, a seam tasting air like an old wound remembering rain, From that seam a green tongue thrust—tiny as rebellion, patient as weather—unfurling syllables into shoots, The split bloom stitched its fracture with light; veins became ladders for sap and whispered cartographies, Walls leaned toward the new seam; mortar loosened its grammar, and names pushed up like—

Names rose like soft mounds, mossing over with evening, each syllable a quiet stone Roofs exhaled; chimneys sealed their calendars, folding anniversaries into hush The bloom dimmed to a single breath, a benediction pressed against the world's brow He held that little dusk against his palm, counting the litany until the valley slept

They folded the night's syllables into a slow litany, naming the missing until names became weather. A low refrain unspooled like loam; each repetition pressed a memory into the soil so that grasses learned the sound. The river took up the cadence and answered in eddies that spelled doorways and the hollow of absent footsteps. He let the flower sink into the hollow of his hand; its petals echoed,—

The river plucked the bloom's syllables and braided them into currents, naming each bend as if calling kin. Old footsteps rode its silver wake; a child's echo climbed ashore, fingers counting doorframes back into being. Bridges unclasped murmurs and returned pocketed keys; silted maps unrolled, margins flushing into named streets. He cupped the lamp of that small dusk and listened while water set—