The past clings,
like moss, nurtured
by tears unshed,
like sap untapped,
warps minds,
sense of self,
craves perceptional
shift –
a vernal appreciation
for the grandeur
of our contours,
brilliance of wisdom
garnered through strife –
the undeniable elegance
of lush green moss.

(Photo from personal collection: rainforest on Vancouver Island.)


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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

11 thoughts on “Moss”

  1. What a wonderful analogy – the past is like moss. I love moss. My mom’s last name was Moss growing up and my grandparents were Ma Moss and Pa Moss. We have a moss garden in two places in our back yard. I am inspired by your poem to contemplate your analogy. I will go outside this afternoon and appreciate our moss.

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