Old Bones -
What remains of the forest’s spine. The moss takes no sides. It grows on memory, on splinters, on silence. Each rib in this rotting form holds breath from another season.
Blanket of Green
A quiet covering. No burial. No forgetting. This green is not kindness—it’s reclamation. A burial shroud without death. The forest keeps what falls and names it sacred by growth alone.
New Growth
A moss altar at the base of something long collapsed. Life doesn’t wait for permission. It builds upon the softened wood like a congregation gathering after ruin. Sunlight hits, but it’s the green that speaks.
Vertical Microcosm
A world in miniature. Suspended. Still breathing. Even standing upright, this limb is returning to the forest. Moss climbs like memory, and a single side branch breaks free like a forgotten gesture.
Tower of Life
It twists upward like it remembers how. Moss climbs like memory, and the strange gift clinging to its side—larva, seed, or sign—feels more intentional than accidental.
Lichen and Light
A single branch, half silver, half sun. The skin of the forest transforms. Light finds the lichen not by accident, but by design.
Cinder
What was once poured and set is now soft with growth. Moss reclaims this industrial bone without judgment, lining every harsh angle with green breath.
Forest Floor
The green spreads like breath across the fallen. Light gathers briefly here, then retreats—leaving the moss and ferns to remember what the forest no longer says aloud.
Twisting Textures
A fallen branch curls like it once lived as antler. Beneath it, the moss runs thick—an undercurrent of growth no longer bound by symmetry or reason.
