Quiet Work

Rain pools in the crooked gutter, breeding green beneath the shingles— moss remembers what we forget.

In the sidewalk's fissured palm, a seed dreams its threadbare root downward, downward, splitting stone with patience that asks nothing of witness.

The fence leans, weathered silver, each board a journal written in the language of rain and sun, dark years staining the grain darker still.

Nothing reaches for the eye here— just the quiet work of time softening edges, returning what was taken to the earth's open mouth.