The Sunken Trellis

Vines crawl over the wrought iron ribs, green veins pulsing against the rust. The scent of crushed thyme lingers where footfalls used to pace the afternoon.

Shadows pool beneath the broad leaves of hydrangeas heavy with ghost blooms. A single stone bench, cracked and moss-draped, waits for a conversation that ended decades ago.

The sun slants through the canopy, dust motes dancing in the amber light. Here, the earth reclaims its borrowed shapes, a slow, quiet swallowing of human intent.