Between the Stones

Moss grows patient in the shadow, a green that asks nothing of the sun— it remembers what was walked upon, holds the story in its velvet hold.

The brick remembers footsteps, each one a word in a language nobody speaks anymore, a voice becoming echo becoming silence.

But spring comes anyway, pushes through the cracks with a tenderness that cracks nothing, only blooms.

And the forgotten places learn to be beautiful again, not despite their abandonment, but because of it.