The firelight flickered, soft and low,
its embers kissed my hair below.
Eight dark petals, clinging tight,
wilting slowly in the night.
The seeds we pressed with quiet prayer,
the life we dreamed would blossom there,
held tight within my trembling fist—
a wish that time would not permit.
If petals fell with every moon,
eight more months would come too soon.
A heartbeat soft, a spark, a glow,
a warmth we never got to know.
I carried fire to light the way,
but flames can warm or drift astray.
By tender hands or fate untamed,
we set the flower into flames.
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