Moss on the Sundial

The slow crawl of green across carved stone, A silent tide consuming hours and days. Pine needles fall like seconds ticking, Building soft layers over the unread face.

In the canopy above, wind rustles ancient branches, A low sigh breathing through the lungs of the earth. Roots dig deeper, anchoring against the spin of worlds, Ignoring the brief flutter of wings in the fading light.

We measure life in beats of blood and flashes of joy, While the wood measures in rings of hardened amber. The sundial sleeps beneath its velvet blanket, Time no longer a master, but a quiet companion.