Moss and Minutes

How small things gather in corners— dust motes catching light, a spider's silk between fence posts, the way moss creeps green and patient over forgotten stones.

No one marks the moment it begins. You wake one day and notice the shadow has moved, the plant has split itself into three. The world accumulates while you're not watching, patient as prayer.

There's a cathedral in the ordinary— in morning dew collecting on spiderwebs, in the rings inside a tree that whisper about the year it nearly broke, in fingerprints worn into doorframes by ten thousand daily hands.

We search the sky for meaning when meaning pools in the smallest places: a child's stone in a jacket pocket, the pressed flower between pages, the way names taste different when spoken by someone who stays.