to know without knowing

To Know Without Knowing Red moss, crimson as the blood of a slaughtered calf, I knew I had seen it before but could not recall where or when. To see a landscape painting, knowing I had been there before In the Valley of Cobblers, children ran barefoot on summer grass and scented wildflowers unpasteurized milk, and healthy, innocent laughter. I know this to be true, but I don’t know why. I think of reindeer; will they eat red moss used as they are to the grey variety? The sun keeps shining like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold. The good earth is dry and waits for rain The Red Moss is a forgotten love story. Perhaps if I sit still long enough and wait I will remember it.