Wind gnaws at the cliffs,
breaking stone to grains of dust,
mountains lose their shape.
Dust is swept downstream,
drifting past the river’s edge,
soft hands carve through stone.
River splits the earth,
pulling roots from loosened ground,
trees bow, then descend.
Leaves drown in the waves,
fading under briny hush,
light slips into blue.
Foam dissolves to mist,
rising toward the silent peaks,
snow begins to bloom.
Cold weighs on the rock,
frost unthreads the mountain’s bones,
wind gnaws at the cliffs.
Even mountains yield—but not in defeat. Change is not erasure; it is becoming.
