Moss
The years have not mildewed
for my moss is deep and soft,
it is a fine as baby hair
as thick as an uncut meadow.
Somewhere there are lands I have plowed
over and over,
beneath which are the fragments
of chalky skeletons,
the remains of scant harvests.
Time accumulates a life,
caves and cave-ins layer atop each other,
and above it all
the moss flourishes
to cover an abandoned machinery
that once excavated molehills.
Rusted tools, implements
now all buried
yet still they seep iron
into my earth.
My moss is threaded with clover,
a greening stronger than steel.
I am heaped and rounded
a place for buttercups in summer,
and when a winter-tide
seeks out that velvet plush,
it shall not bite nor crush
but lay as a companion beside me.
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