What grows now, 

grows crooked,

but it grows. 

The earth, unasked

keeps making things

through ash,

through rot, 

through blood soaked deep,

and quietly forgotten.

I have seen weeds push

through concrete,

I have seen graves

with no names

still gather flowers.

The hills don't howl,

but they remember. 

Their silence is not peace.

Under the hush of moss and shale,

something splits.

Not loud,

but slow,

steady, like breath

withheld beneath the loam. 

I walk where fires once

licked the trees clean.

Their blackened spines

still reaching.

They do not ask to be saved.

There are no sides to wind,

no borders in smoke.

The river cuts through stone

not out of mercy,

but need.

I press my ear to the ground

and hear nothing.

Not the names,

not the numbers,

only roots

groping

down.

What grows now,

grows crooked,

but it grows.