Do you suppose the stone wonders
what it would feel like
to dissolve into rain—
to be unburdened of weight,
to forget shape
and fall through the sky
like forgiveness?
Maybe the river resents its name—
always being told it moves,
never asked if it wants to.
It remembers being mist once,
a ghost in trees,
and dreams of stillness
beneath ice.
The mountain does not lament
but listens with patience,
each crack in its spine
a memory of fire.
It envies the cloud—
how it can vanish
without apology.
Couldn’t the flame be tired
of dancing for us?
Always burning
just enough to be beautiful,
never enough to disappear.
It might rather curl up
into smoke
and drift into the lungs of dusk.
Doesn’t the ocean sometimes wish
to forget the moon—
to stop answering
silver commands?
Tides are such old habits;
perhaps the sea is tired
of pretending
it doesn’t long to be still.
