Updated: Jul 23
To moss on the stones
belongs the beauty of contradictions;
tiny, tangling forests drawing life from lifelessness,
flushing green from gray,
growing soft as pillow talk atop hardened minerals and
lush, even for lack of reaching branches
or climbing tendrils.
soaking up only filtered specks of amber light,
and so thrive its paradoxes, its sweet internal oppositions,
this we borrow when
we speak loving words through clenched teeth,
push blossoms into barrels,
hold still with racing instincts.
this we have learned. seeded in hard situations,
we turn to the moss and it shows us
our gentleness as strength,
our silence as survival.
from down where graves are dug,
there may still spring life.