I love moss — its color, its texture, its immediate response to fog or the slightest hint of rain, and how it thrives on thoughtful compression and familiar touch, growing thick beneath footsteps on sidewalks, in lawns, and on forest paths. In some ways it is almost human. Or maybe we are almost moss. This time of year, the retaining walls, the stone steps, and the wooden borders of the neighborhood might well have been built in Roman times, so graceful and ancient they appear in their moist emerald quilts and coverings. Softly, now. Here is the past, here is the present, everywhere grace and the end of war.
Just Long Enough
Resting against an old wall, I grow moss —
here just long enough for worlds to pass away.
Recently Banned Literature, March 20, 2018
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