Weathering

A stone remembers the river's argument, how water dissolved its hardest edges into shape, into smoothness, into surrender. Not all softness comes from gentleness.

The cracks run north to south like longing, gathering soil in their gray folds, small kingdoms where moss learns to whisper. A monument to patient undoing.

Years press down like a hand on paper, each season a fresh load of weather, and the stone holds—not because it resists, but because it knows how to become less, how to make room for the sky's reflection.

There is a beauty in what fractures, in the way time carves its signature into everything that stands still long enough. Even granite learns to listen to its own falling.