The Planter

I will not live to see the orchard.

The ground I turn will be covered by snow long before the saplings bear fruit. The hands that pick them will not know my name.

But I plant anyway.

Because someone planted for me —

a tree I leaned against before I knew its roots ran deeper than memory,

a song I heard before I knew who had first sung it,

a truth that bloomed in me without knowing whose breath had carried the seed.

I plant because the healer did.

Because the rebel did.

Because the nurse did, humming under her breath while the walls shook.

One day, there will be shade where there was only heat.

There will be bread where there was only hunger.

There will be peace where there was only fire.

I will not be there to see it.

But when they bite into the fruit,

they will taste my hands.

And they will never know why it makes them weep.