Mar 18
The last moments before springs blows open.
Spongiform moss thing.
Burst chestnuts, gone purple.
Chestnuts, burst, natural.
Before the leaves.
Where grass-like weeds once thrived.
Mossy carpet.
Carpet close.
Weeping cherry, self-selected structure.
The white-bellies that fly in the night.
Just is.
There’s no explanation.
Mar 14
You expect moss in the woods, on rocks,
here and there.
And along the branch
where conditions are right.
Or by the house on the stack
of old chimley stones.
But it’s spreading under the Chinese Chestnut trees
and in wide swathes,
hundreds, thousands, of square feet.
Grass will argue in some places,
but the grass has surrendered in most places.
Not exactly new this year, but accelerated,
from decades of not spreading lime,
or from some fresh factor,
from changes in the climate?
It’s soft and pretty and can’t be mowed,
ideal for a graveyard.
Jan 3
Doesn’t matter what I think,
some bear’s been shredding them.
Peck and peck. Repeat.
How much wood? You cannot imagine.
Several layers interlaced living on decay.
More and more, the moss beats back the grass.
The extent of it is new and puzzling.
Evergreen mountain laurel leaves are the thermometer of the woods.
At 43°F they look like this; warmer they lift and flatten;
colder they curl, tighter and tighter, into little tubes at zero.
And here is 25°F, this morning.
Walkabout in wonderland this afternoon.
Happy New Year!
