Rust and Petals

The iron fence bends beneath the weight of ivy, A slow corrosion disguised as a green embrace. Time moves here not in seconds, but in seasons, Flaking away the sharp edges of human intent Until only the memory of boundaries remains.

Beneath the oak, a shattered ceramic cup Gathers the morning rain like an offering. Someone drank from this edge, breathed the steam, And left it to the soil's quiet reclamation, Where roots now thread through the pale porcelain.

The wind carries the scent of damp earth and ozone, A prelude to the storm gathering beyond the hills. We build our walls and pour our fragile concrete, Yet the roots push through the cracks in the dark, And the ivy continues its patient, upward crawl.