Concrete Gardens

Between the cracks, a green insistence— not asking permission, simply arriving. The weed knows something about resilience we've forgotten while paving over.

Moss blooms soft on storm drain edges, tiny empires rising where water pools. Nothing waits for the gardener here; every root is an argument won.

I watch the city breathe at its margins, these small rebellions against order. A flower on the fire escape holds more defiance than we'll ever grow.

What survives here has learned to want less— a crack of light, a handful of rain. And somehow that makes it more beautiful, this quiet refusal to disappear.