Lately moss has been confronting me
With green, quiet significance. It boldly grows
In pavement cracks, on unseen bark, free
To sit still and soft on a stump or rows
Of stones that used to be a wall. I see
These viridescent carpet patches lying
Meditatively still–infinitive to be–
Beautiful and enough, giggling at all my trying.
These microcosm forests–I think what one
Cell must look like, how infinitesimal
And necessary it is, chloro-filled and sun-
Avoidant, ever-leftward moving decimal.
It was childhood–my love for moss began to grow
Because it’s not grass. That you have to mow.