Fungal Memory

In the closed atrium, memory germinates in spore filaments.
Every crack is a thought’s cap expanding in the glow of mold.
Beneath the rain filtering from the ceiling, memories sprout like small luminous fungi.
The house is silent, but traces seep into the walls, damp.
The rooms become a forest; shelves grow in a row, trembling stalks.
Blurred voices emerge among mold and faucets that sing barely.
When silence quiets down, memories wrap themselves in fabrics of frost.
And the ivy of words constricts the cracks, leaving the scent of a home that does not die.