The whispers of moss
I could not hear
Though I have tried to quiet myself enough
The color like your first bite of ripe juicy plum
Warm from the light of the sun
Vibrant and verdant and rich
Tiny fingernails of it on gnarled fence posts
Whethered by relentless wind and clawing rain
Thriving and clinging
Drawing an ever searching gaze
Bringing eyes delight and whimsy
My mother gathered moss
And keep it on her table
She wanted to hold close a forest path
A memory of peace
Be surrounded by the whispers of moss
Though she too couldn't hear
Life was shrieking so loudly, relentlessly
There are those of us
Who listen for moss
Who's eyes are drawn up into the trees or downwards all around
Widened with delight
Irises taking it all in
Hand reaching, a fingertip caressing
Moss
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