Poetry

Moss

5 March 2019

1. Is sponge-like, encouraging
soapy suds, moisture
to develop in its hide.
You pull at its hair
and come away
empty handed.

2. Why do you grasp this
crumpled collection of tulle
with such force?
Your skin is stained
with emerald life you
can’t quite possess.

3. An eager tug makes you slip
and wait for the wicked
crack of splintered bone.
Moss softens the blow,
though, with a blanket knit
by its bruised fingers.


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