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If only I could stay
In labyrinths green
Ever wandering
In hallways of sunlight
Nothing more than
A lingering thought
Left floating through
Wooden minds and
Mossy corridors

I find sanctuary in the wet, green moss on the shady north side of the trail
The floor that skitters with the movement of life
The sunshine that scatters through the canopy of pine needles

The forest works alive with motion
And yet there is calm in the silence of the wood
All playing their part in peaceful existence, mostly

The give and take of rotting matter feeding the cycle of new growth
Some flourish while others adapt to the discomfort
Growing where they’re planted and healing the wounds of their lot

Nature finds a way to survive the violence of drought, wind, fire, or flood
And the seeds of resilience live on in the next generation
Stronger, wiser
-elixir- Aug 2020
The old habits set in
like the moss on stones,
clinging to my brain.
                                    Waiting to inhale my
                                     remaining soul that I
                                     grew last summer.
Ann Pedone Jul 2020
there are
times when
the world insists on
making meaning don’t
turn this
into an abstraction
my hand
here between your
legs covered
with moss (I can almost
feel your milky roots)
watch my fingers
as I touch you there is
can you
see it
watch me get on my
knees this is
the sky flowing out
of your hips can you
see it this is
what gives (milk)
to all of my
hungers don’t
let me
make you flesh
into blossom let me
take you down
into me
like the rain
Sage Mar 2020
Like standing on the peak of a mountain range during a lightning storm with my eyes closed,
I am sending myself as a beacon out to you.
With blueberry tinted fingers you touch my face, soft as the sunset mist, and leave bruise colored echoes across my skin,
I am running, skipping my body across the darkening soil like a stone, spinning my way past the orange fungi adorned trees after you,
Can’t you feel the swirling hurricane of desire in my chest when we press close,
the way my body settles like cooling lava around you when we intertwine,
I cannot help but to be shaped by you.

All around us the auroras waltz and curtsy,
the moss cloaked rocks pulsate with earth's breath,
the lightning strikes.
I open my eyes, and you are gone.
TD Mar 2020
catches on mossy greens
claiming the side of an impervious

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.

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.
To a wood of Ash and Oak I'll go
And in shade of ancient canopy lie
Amongst Moss I'll make my bed

In this mossy sleep I'll die
And on the grass will lay my head
My final ending sight the sky

The Foxes over me will tread
And of a meal they'll make my eye
But on this fact I have no dread

For I will not be there to spy
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