Rust

The gate holds its color like an old promise— oxidized copper, the geometry of decay rendered beautiful by patience.

Nothing moves here but the light, slanting through the lattice, sketching shadow-grids on what was once a path. Now weeds have other ideas.

I trace the blooming corrosion with one finger— warm, almost alive, each flake a small resurrection of what metal remembers being.

There is no rush to closure here. The hinges have forgotten their purpose but not their art. They sing only when the wind decides to turn them.