—from Spirit of Wild
Moss and fern, Raasay, Scotland
Cushion and Broom: you are what we see,
no explanation needed for your name, your charm;
Fountain moss: oh lover of streams and ponds but reluctant
to trust the flow, clutching root and rock;
Carpet: like so many dense mats draped across the woody
floor, plucked to stuff comforters, folk tales certain you
give the gift of sleep;
Apple: with your russet shoots, you blossom bony hillsides;
Fringe: with a fondness for rocks and stone walls, you grip
the edges of roofs and streams, always at the margins –
the outlier;
Granite moss: softening colder climes, green against the
slate, the ever-falling leaves;
Feather: with your quills; Hair-cap flowering green
fireworks;
Bog moss: with sprays like threads, a single bud blushing
the field;
Star: as numerous as your namesake, as steady and
stalwart, ready to handle anything, grow anywhere;
Elfin-gold and Luminous, you gloss cave walls,
gleam in fissures and hollows, cradled in roots, light
hidden
but burning still.
