The Moss Sermon

Even the smallest and humblest grows.

🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨

Upon a stone where rain did soak,

Ezra clung—-his creed silent

No bloom, no praise, no boast—-

With moss and grit, compliant.

🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨

She watched crowned flowers get picked first

Their petals bright, their moments fine

They laughed at moss, its lime-green quirks

But their colours faded, over time.

🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨

Now children climb on weathered stone

One leans close to lime green moss

Ezra speaks, a truth grown old,

“Grow slow, my child, no loss.”

🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨

This poem is entirely original. AI tags are coincidental.