The Garden's Arithmetic

A patch of wild grass counts itself in inches—thriving in the crack where concrete forgot to breathe. Each blade a small arithmetic of what was meant to be forgotten.

The weed knows no apology. It grows through the broken places, patient as water finding stone, turning injury into architecture, green through the gaps of intention.

I watch it write its own story in the language of roots, each root a sentence the soil already knows by heart.

We call it invasion. The earth calls it returning.