Moss Cathedral

In the shadow of stone, chlorophyll whispers begin— a soft greening in the cracks where nothing was supposed to grow.

The moss does not hurry. It knows the patience of centuries, the way water holds its breath through seasons of drought, then returns, always returning.

I watch it climb the north face like a prayer without words, ancient green spelling out what broken things become: not fixed, but transformed.

Each spore a small faith— that fissures are promises, that life finds its way through the hardest surfaces, persistent as starlight through the thinnest clouds.