Let moss whisper

a flood of stories

long forgotten—

murmured not in words

but in velvet hush

on the surface of stone.

She speaks slow,

syllables green and damp.

She has no teeth

but grips

what we drop—

names, bones,

the seeds of prayers

never spoken aloud.

She covered the boots

of a man lost in thought.

She kissed the back step

of a house swallowed whole.

She grows on old pews

in chapels the vines

gave last rites.

She remembers

what we meant

when we first sang.

She holds lullabies

no mother recalls.

If you kneel close—

closer—

she will tell you

how the mountain learned silence,

how deadwood still dreams

of leaf.

She is the psalm

before paper,

the balm

before wound.

Let moss have

the last word.

She will not shout.

She will not forget.