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.