The Grammar of Moss

Moss grows in the grammar of patient hours, spelling chlorophyll where shadow pools, green script on the margin of a stone that has forgotten its mason's hand.

I have watched it claim the crevices, the small confidences between grain and time— not the loud greening of spring, but this: the revolution of the overlooked, the slow insurgence of the small.

The stone does not resist. It settles deeper into its own weight, receives the moss like a first language spoken in whispers, in the currency of spores.

There is a grammar here that asks nothing— no permission, no apology for the softening, only the mathematics of moisture and patience, the alphabet of all things that survive by growing inward, by taking root in the spaces between.