There’s something to be said for moss,
that green that creeps between old rocks;
It settles gently on the ground
and softens all that it surrounds.

There’s something to be said for dirt,
that clay that clings onto your shirt;
It taints your shoes and fills your hair,
and paints your footprints on the stairs.

There’s something to be said for sweat,
that drop that seeps below your neck;
It tastes of salt and endless days,
and cools you from the noon sun’s rays.

There’s something to be said for time
that makes and breaks all by design;
It ends each night so you can see
the sky you’ve missed beyond the trees.