What Remains

Stone remembers water. The cliff face holds centuries of patient smallness— each drop leaving nothing, everything.

We are less durable than we believe. Our edges soften with each conversation, each absence we fold into ourselves like letters we never send.

The garden knows this. How a single frost erases bloom, how the root system spreads wider after the visible parts surrender.

I am learning to trust the weight of staying still. Some growth happens in the dark, some strength is built from weathering.