Moss Whispers

The stone remembers what rain carves into its face— soft geometry, green breath claiming what the years refuse to hold.

No sound, no urgency. Just the patient stitching of spores, a quiet revolution happening where no one thinks to look.

I kneel where the sidewalk has learned to let go, where concrete surrenders to the ancient work of becoming something else, something necessary and alive.

This is how the world writes its truths: slowly, imperceptibly, with no desire to be noticed, only to be, persistently, completely.