Erosion

The stone knows only water's argument— drop by persistent drop, the surface yields, each rivulet carving its small gospel into the ancient face of what stood still.

We are like this: shaped by the everyday erosions of weather and attention, worn smooth not by dramatic storms but by the patient, unremarkable friction of mornings that arrive regardless.

The river doesn't rush its artistry. It loops and returns, loop and return, until the canyon is a verse written in stone, readable now to anyone who stops to watch the light catch edges.

And we, too, are becoming— each small surrender a polishing, each moment a whisper of water teaching stone the language of letting go, the vocabulary of grace.