Monday, June 13, 2011


How must it be
to be moss,

that slipcover of rocks?—

greening in the dark,
longing for north,

the silence
of birds gone south.
How does moss do it,
all day

in a dank place
and never a cough?—

a wet dust
where light fails,

where the chisel
cut the name.
By Bruce Guernsey

All photos taken at Bridal Falls Provincial Park, BC, Canada

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