Moss Testimony

Green alphabet spelling itself across the forgotten stone, each letter a year of rain, of shadow, of what the sun cannot burn away.

The moss asks nothing of hurry. It knows only the grammar of slow— how patience is a kind of language, how silence says more than screaming, how a thing becomes itself by not becoming anything else.

I watch it climb the north face where dampness lingers, where darkness is not punishment but invitation.

Small resurrections. Each spore a believer in what will return— spring, moisture, the whispered permission to grow in the margins, unmeasured, lovely in the cracks where nothing perfect lives.