The Fruit of Storms

Bismah April 20

At first, the rain fell in knives—

a voice like splintered wood:

"Girls don’t ride," it hissed,

while small hands clutched the handlebars,

rust blooming where hope gripped.

The storm swelled, relentless,

pounding walls papered with old rules.

But she stood—

a sapling bending, never breaking—

her roots digging deeper

where the earth cracked.

Then came the great flood:

not water, but a grief so thick

it choked the sun.

In its wake, two hands—

one young, one etched with years—

clasped over a child’s grave,

planting seeds where salt once pooled.

Now, light spills through broken beams.

A tricycle’s wheel, half-buried in mud,

sprouts orange blossoms.

The old voice hums a lullaby,

its edges softened by honeyed air.

Rain may pour as if it would sweep everything away.

But here, where shadows linger,

life rises in tangerine dawns—

bitter skin split open,

revealing the sweetness

we guard like heirlooms.

No matter what.

No matter how.

The fruit grows heavier

with every storm survived.

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P.C: Pinterest

Writing: Mine

#PoetryMonth2025

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