Untitled
This land was never gentle.
Stone learned early
how to stay.
Wind learned
how to strike
and keep moving.
Some places raise
what survives
weeds through concrete,
trees bent low
by wire, by smoke,
roots gripping
whatever depth will hold.
Rain does not ask.
It falls where it can,
finds cracks,
makes a way
through ruin.
Fire passes.
It always does.
What remains is quieter
blackened ground,
green waiting,
the work beneath
still happening.
Even scarred earth
keeps going
ash becoming cover,
pressure becoming shape,
learning how to stand.
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