Roots on the Wet Verge

Time arrives with a shovel of rain on shining rays.
Cultivating roots upon the verge of a forgotten bicycle.
Every drop is a small hoe that digs memories into the metal.
The wind holds its breath, and memory becomes earth.
Roots protrude from the pedals, threads of time seeking home.
Under the rain, the frame receives the sound of breathing roots.
The seat becomes a niche of memories, damp like a newly risen dream.
The wheels tell of roads that are not in a hurry to return.
When the rain falls silent, the bicycle remains a garden.
Roots intertwined with the frame, small trees of time on the border.
And I observe, a discreet spectator, while memory grows.
Perhaps tomorrow an iron flower will appear between asphalt and clouds.