Anyone can Write · Iowa · Tell Your Story

I have a crush on moss

Moss is a gift of the Midwest.

Of humid summers and forgotten forests.

And too tall trees that reach heavenward

Moss is the first to show after the crack of winter

And the last to go at the end of harvest.

Moss grows through old brick streets

On the sides of houses planked with siding

Up the sides of trees

Intertwining with ancient bark and branches.

It refuses to be stopped.

It refuses to give up.

The vibrant green contrasts against its host

The green of an Irish hue

A green that seems unreal

But is so bright that you can’t

Look away.

A rolling stone might gather no moss

But a still stone will gather moss

And it doesn’t seem to mind.

Some might consider moss

a pest

or commonplace

But moss will grow on

in spite of what you think.

It will live on.

It will cover every surface and

work its way into cracks

of unseen surfaces.

Making everything a little brighter.

 

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Taken in the forest near our house

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