harvest hymn

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

Night's seam loosens; a pale filament slips from the bloom and pulls the east like a curtain. Petals unfurl into ladders of light, each rung a name turning gold against cold roofs. Chimneys cough up syllables; kitchens answer with steam that tastes of childhood addresses. The river re-reads the carved ledger and scatters its letters into bright, obedient eddies. Villagers blink sleep from their be

Villagers blink sleep from their beds and stitch their names into the night, Grandmothers tap spoons by lantern-light and teach the young the answering rite, One voice utters a hamlet, another returns it like a practiced tide, Hands curl into the circle; names pass palm to palm and swell the bride— The Monkey King folds his palms; a grin sets the tempo the valley will keep, Kettles hum a counter-m

They raise a reaping chorus, voices cupped like baskets, calling each name into the wagons of light, Fields answer in rustle and measure, turning syllables into grain so the ovens learn the valley's lexicon, The little bloom folds itself into a kernel, weaving its filigree into seed and soil, patient as a kept promise, The Monkey King's grin closes like a lid; bread and river carry the litany on—m