The poem is just three short lines, but it leaves a lot unsaid. It describes mold spreading under a set of drawers, somewhere hidden and rarely checked. Nothing else is given: no room, no person, no reaction. We only get the quiet fact of it.
The word that stands out is "flourishing." We usually use it for something good, like a garden or a business, so applying it to mold feels odd and a little unsettling. The speaker seems calm, even detached, as if reporting what they've noticed without comment. That flat tone makes the image creepier than an outright complaint would.
The mood is damp, neglected and uneasy. Judging by the imagery, the poem hints at things we ignore that keep growing anyway, whether in a house or in ourselves. It never says so directly, which is part of its effect. The reader is left to sit with the small, slow decay.