Soft Hammer

Look how the moss threads
its soft spine through asphalt—
each emerald knuckle rising
where the road forgot to seal itself.

In the lot where rain pools,
oil spreads its peacock sheen,
a dark mirror holding
every color it was never meant to be.

I've learned to love
what grows in cracks:
the stubborn green fist,
the tender rebellion of roots
splitting what seemed permanent.

Even this slick of oil
becomes cathedral glass,
teaching light
to bend, to play,
to make holiness
from what was spilled.

We are all
breaking through something.