Fractures

A seed waits in the margin of concrete, patient in the dark seam where two worlds meet. Rain finds it. The root knows no apology as it splits the gray, insistent and slow.

The city tastes earth for the first time in decades, breathes something green from its own broken skin. We who built the walls never imagined the fracture as a door.

What grows in the ruins grows without permission, without the promise of harvest or beauty— just the simple mathematics of survival: light plus moisture equals reaching.

We call it a weed and mow it down, then watch, year after year, as it returns. Some things refuse the script we wrote for them. Some things are more alive for being unwanted.

The seed knows only this: push harder where the resistance is greatest. That is where it learns its strength. That is where it becomes itself.