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.
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.
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.