Of Moss and Mind

chunks of moss

Of Moss and Mind

Instead of Whitman’s lilacs,
my dooryard blooms with
     chunks of bright green moss,

     scattered haphazardly,
at least seemingly so.
     There may be a plan at work.

Perhaps the moss behaves
     more like a hive mind than I know.
Or, perhaps the hive mind

     belongs not to the moss but
     to the Earth and its winds
and its birds and its hired hands

     and its airy moisture,
of which there has been little of late,
no doubt contributing to the breaking

     up of whatever undercover unity
used to keep the moss all together.
     Now, bright green chunks begin

to disperse—like stanzas
     in a poem about to end.

more chunks of moss


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