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
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
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.
Taken in the forest near our house