Bread for the root
Tears for the dead
Sweet grows the fruit
Where the lost are fed

She came each year when the frost withdrew
With black bread in her hand
To the hill where Lachryma leaned
Above the sleeping land

Her husband lay where no church bell rang
No marker bore his name
Only the road that brought him home
Remembered why he came

She broke the bread beside the root
She poured no wine, no prayer
She only touched the darkened bark
And set her sorrow there

“I will not ask the grave to open
I will not curse the clay
But let him know I brought the bread
I promised yesterday”

O widow of the orchard
What sweetness have you sown?
The fruit is red with longing
The branches bend alone

O widow of the orchard
Do you bless or do you mourn?
For one night in the arms you lost
You wake twice as torn

The first year gave her nothing back
But moss upon the root
The second year, a little shoot
Stood silent by her boot

By the tenth year, all around the tree
An orchard small had grown
Not planted by a living hand
Not claimed by seed or stone

Each little tree had silver bark
Each blossom pale and late
And every fruit that hung from them
Was heavy with a fate

No rain could make the orchard bloom
No river fed the ground
Only tears from faithful hands
Could wake the sweetness bound

Sweet dream
Bitter dawn
Hold him close
Then he is gone

Sweet dream
Bitter seed
Love is a hunger
The dead still feed

The widow took the first ripe fruit
And held it to her face
It smelled of smoke and summer rain
Of wool and fireplace

She bit into its tender skin
The juice was bright as wine
And all the years collapsed at once
Like thread pulled into twine

That night he stood beside their bed
No older than before
His hand was warm, his laugh was low
His coat hung by the door

He said, “You brought the bread again”
She said, “I always do”
And in the dream, the house was whole
The window full of blue

When morning came
There was no coat
No hand
No breath beside her

Only the taste of sweetness
Still alive on her tongue

She laughed once
Then wept until the bowl on the table
Filled with tears

By evening
another fruit had begun to grow

The village learned the orchard’s law:
No thief could taste and keep
For those who stole the widow’s fruit
Found no beloved in sleep

But those who came with honest grief
With bread, with names, with care
Could dream one night of one they lost
And touch them like a prayer

Some called it mercy, some called it curse
Some begged the widow, “No”
She only said, “A starving heart
Will eat what makes it know”

O widow of the orchard
What sweetness have you sown?
The fruit is red with longing
The branches bend alone

O widow of the orchard
Do you bless or do you mourn?
For one night in the arms you lost
You wake twice as torn

O widow of the orchard
Let the bitter branches sway
Some dreams are not a healing
But a door that will not stay

O widow of the orchard
Still the mourners come to feed
For love would rather suffer twice
Than let the dead recede

Bread for the root
Tears for the dead
Sweet grows the fruit
Where the lost are fed

Bread for the root
Dawn for the bone
The widow leaves smiling
And wakes up alone