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Mar 2020
Sun
catches on mossy greens
claiming the side of an impervious
frame.

A blunt stroke
in a world of extremes
blurring symmetry
with a deliberate slant.

Indifferent to approachable
stalwart to still.

A paint-laden brush
turning unwavering guards
into the most trusted
of confidantes.

I’m drawn to nurse
the errant side
with a gentle hand
to coax a testimony of truth.

A humbled servant once a king.
A dying giant to a ***** friend.

Transformed.

Once a professor of celestial beings
now a hopeful star gazer.

The weathered skin worn
by a fallen age
now at the pleasure
of a wanderer’s intrigue.

A witness.

Standing assured
the immovable
holds his post
to bespeak a worthy tale.

I am hard-put to deny him.

They who reached for heaven
never would achieve it.
Yet in civilian garb
vulnerability laid bare, exposed.

Sentinels become saints,
and I cannot ignore their courage.
Moss is a clue to the environment around a tree. It signals excessive moisture and that the air around the tree is unpolluted—pure. Meanwhile too much moss can cause a tree to become unbalanced “weak” during a wind storm. Just the right amount of moss adds beauty without destruction, a delicate look of vulnerability.
TD
Written by
TD  F
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