Echoes in the Rust

The iron gate forgets the hand that forged it, Flakes of orange peel away in the damp morning air, Leaving only the skeleton of a boundary.

We map our lives in these slow dissolutions, The way the oak leans further toward the river each year, The way a voice loses its timbre in the span of a decade.

Nothing holds its breath forever. Even the stones shift under the weight of winter, Grinding into sand, waiting for the water to take them.