arranged in a loose spiral,
the woodland creeps across the stone--
slow steps of century allow roots
to break words, to make carvings
of their own in the vestiges of life
ethereal things,
carried by the wind like spirits
knowing their place in fog,
as seeds peel back the green
and steal the grey,
and each fall leaves more gentle rot
on the encroaching forest floor,
patterns drawn in wind and time
across the fading courtyard,
paths which no longer know human steps
to disturb the ground
with remembrance.
--
Title is prompt.
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