the thing about moss
apart from its greenness
the low winter sun warmed our faces
as we stepped over fallen branches
is that it has no roots, only
rhizoids
in the forest, newly green-warmed
by the moss and green rushes
(single cell organs
slim as hair or thread)
among the rust-grey leaves the colour
of roe deer, muntjacs
that nestle beneath
the leaf-rows or spirals
our hands on the moss, so yielding, so wet
so flamboyant and bright
anchoring them
to tree or rock, absorbing
still fresh – after 540 million years –
to the taste of this dewy air
and carrying water slow
along their filaments
Third day in Small Town, Montana:
one flat road through Ponderosa pines
cabins, trailers, long-beard bikers
hotel, motel, casino
Make America Great Again Trump Fundraiser tonight
two grizzly bears stuffed and mounted.
Yesterday, at dusk, I disturbed
a Great Blue Heron
drawing reluctantly from the creek
an awkward rise, legs unfolding,
its grace yet present in the sleek neck
and slow effort
and I supposed, in wild nature, there could be no hurrying
no mistakes, no greed or unkindness
no taking for taking’s sake
no covenant-decreed sacrifice of others.
Then this afternoon I bought a potato-masher
at the Variety Store,
the shopkeeper’s mother
was from Leeds, England, she said
and there are too many I-ranians
coming and taking our jobs
and the President
is letting them live right next door
bringing in their bombs
and they hate us, right
so they can go right back home
and leave the jobs for Americans
for us Seniors, just trying to pay our taxes.
And to my right and to my left
men ate wild Mallard
each an entire duck blooding their plates.
Now this evening, the creek below the pines
is silver-pink
shimmering toward the dark
and I think of the river running through us
quietly asking its questions,
low, beneath thought.
I take a blindfold, lie down and listen
to a half-globe of star-green star moss,
hear dense hairs ease up, and reflecting
leaf tips brace, catch narrow fronds sly
slowing the air, slow air lip a long leaf
and I just couldn’t remember humanness
even though or especially because she died
and I wasn’t there, nor she, all so very late
while the star-green star moss sips dew
in the breath-seed between air and rock
as if in death all were air and moss and fresh
floating love and death itself dissolved
until the powder-spores are lifted high,
full-free on breezy swirls and vortices.
for Judith, i.m.