The Quiet Rust

The iron gate forgets the hand that polished its cold spine, giving way to the slow bloom of oxide, bright as dried blood against the graying wood.

Ferns curl through the gaps, indifferent to the boundary, their pale green tongues licking the last flakes of black paint into the soft, damp earth.

We built it to outlast us, to stand strict against the wind, but the soil has a longer memory, pulling the marrow of the metal down into the dark and quiet roots.