Incandescence sparks within a moment,
igniting springtime in a flash of green
as if to ripen everything at once,
to inspire a confidence like madness:
At the simple sight of moss
gathering effortlessly over concrete,
the city streets dissolve to quietude
and stillness whispers possibilities,
kisses me, that I might remember
captives climbing out of chiseled stone,
the wax and wane of hillsides and their seas—
movement is everything.
Above the moss, the street and me,
transcendent blue revolves unfailingly,
belief eclipses doubt, however brief.