The Quiet Argument

Water traces ancient grooves, patient sculptor with no hands, each droplet a small insistence against the granite's stubborn memory.

Stone remembers nothing yet bears everything—the map of ten thousand runlets, soft signatures of persistence.

In this slow argument neither wins nor yields, only the polishing happens, the becoming smooth of what was sharp.

We are the water or the stone, or both, or the space between where the work happens silently, where time becomes visible.