Through the Fine Line

Between the slabs of grey, cold stone,

the concrete cut by winter's frost,

a single green, so fiercely grown,

a tiny victory, almost lost.

It pushed, it strained, a vibrant shoot,

through hairline fissure, barely wide.

Its tender, stubborn, seeking root

found purchase where it could not hide.

No sun meant for it, just the bare

rejection of the pavement's will.

And still, it found the humid air,

a quiet, green, defiant thrill.

It asked for nothing, simply found

the smallest opening, thin and deep.

And now it thrives on barren ground,

while city giants softly sleep.