Becoming Moss

In the corner where rain collects, a stone remembers softness— green velvet claiming what time has already surrendered.

The old fence posts don't fight it. They settle into their own forgetting, each board a page turning yellow, writing itself into earth.

What we leave behind learns a different kind of blooming— not the bright assault of roses but the patient luminescence of things becoming landscape.

Even concrete splits at the seams, opens itself to root and rain, a long conversation with time that asks nothing but stillness and the permission to dissolve.