Stones Remember

The river polishes what the mountain releases, each stone a whisper of years compressed to silence, and I walk the streambed touching evidence of pressure, heat, the slow mathematics of breaking.

Nothing here is soft by accident— the water knew what it was doing, patient apprentice grinding corners away until nothing sharp remained but the memory of sharpness.

In the palm of my hand, smooth weight, a small argument against chaos resolved, a pebble that learned to be patient the way we must all learn if we want to survive the rough hands of the world.

Tomorrow it will be dust again, and I will be less certain, but today we are both here— stone and witness— understanding that becoming is the only permanence.