Moss

Moss

How must it be

to be moss,

that slipcover of rocks?—

imagine,

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