From oblivion
come the broke open seedhusks
on dark forest floors.

Trout lily and moss
colonies under our feet,
feeding the season.

I move, you don’t see,
slowly each day on this rock,
it’s how life proceeds.

Spring sun on our heads,
wild moss at the riverbank,
mystery, it all.

The early bloomer,
pulled up by the song sparrow,
into the spring sun.

Velvety moss grows
all around my mother’s yard,
wild and green all year.

Moss growing on moss,
stitched like embroidery thread
to the fallen tree.

The moss draws the light,
sun finds it in the forest,
willing and able.

Lichen under moss
growing for thousands of years
here by the river.

The path takes us to
the shoulders of the forest
where gentle vines grow.

Green stars on the ground—
moss blooming in late winter
at the full river.

Woodpeckers are out,
a flock of titmice chatting—
camaraderie.

What would I become
if I laid down by this tree?
Sun, teaching me things.

In the cool forest,
moss like an aerial view
of green shadowlands.

Testimonial,
above speech and below song,
this spring moss takes flight.

Green moss wreaths each tree,
river flows with melted snow,
spring’s foot in the door.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Spring frogs are singing,
the forest is waking up,
we walk and listen.

Purple moss growing,
taking up every crevice—
a soft earthly life.

Catching the light,
moss striped with snow grows bright green,
warm under my hand.