The Moss Remembers

The moss remembers what the stone forgot— how water carved these ridges, how light finds the deepest cracks.

Here, in the damp margins, green unfolds its patient alphabet, each spore a word written in the language of decay and slow becoming.

The world rushes past, hurried and bright, but the moss knows time tastes like mineral, like the breath of shade, like the space between what dies and what remains.

I have found my heaven in this small thing— the way it thrives where nothing else will grow, the way it turns stone into softness, silence into song.