Moss: Quiet Architecture

Beneath the oak's dark shadow, green ink spreads across stone— a patient calligraphy the rain has been writing for years.

No hurry in this drowning, this slow dissolution into softness. The ferns bow their fronds like monks in a library of damp.

Here, time moves sideways: a spore traveling on breath, a thread stitching soil to sky, the mycelium's whispered economy.

Nothing is lost in this green, only translated— wood into shadow, shadow into the moss that remembers.