Roots Among Cracks

Time breathes through spent rails, seeds hidden in concrete.
Memory sows a minute root that wedges into the crack.
Silent voices make it sap among broken tiles.
The cold air carries a scent of rain that remembers.
The cracks become maps showing where to return.
Every root unwinds a face, a name, a touch of time.
The neon trembles, and the light becomes sun through the dark.
The distant noise is memory breathing in a drop of rain.
Deserted, the station does not sleep; it wakes to rhythms of roots.
On the cold iron grows a small forest of memories.
The rails tell stories to those who listen on tiptoes.
And so memory sows, until the night becomes day.