The Green Coup

The wrought iron gate is a lace of rust, unlocked by the slow lever of ivy. Here, the bricks have forgotten their names, crumbling back into the red clay that birthed them before the pavement came.

A sundial sits blind in the long shadow of a skyscraper's glass and steel spine. It measures time not in hours, but in the deepening of moss and the patient unfurling of fern.

Lavender escapes the cracked stone pots, scenting the exhaust of the distant street. The wind carries no voices here, only the dry rattle of dead leaves dancing on the bones of a trellis.

Nature is a quiet insurrection, reclaiming the silence between heartbeats. A single root splits the foundation, and the city dreams of becoming a forest once again.