We Are Moss

By Fred Dale

To my eyes, you arrive complete,

reaching down naturally, hands

after feet, you give up

the direction of the wind

for us all.

 

When the oak unhands you

there is another there to go,

a camellia bush to gather and

rearrange your tangles.

 

No longer jewelry at the branch tips,

the wind ignores your oblivion

within tightly wound pink flowers

cracked open on one end

and leaves everywhere,

the plurality of beauty, only to be

beaked away at this more reachable

height—sewn into nests, or packed

by hands into the walls

themselves, changing shape

in defiance of the pull that had you,

despite the wind, for so long.

 

—–

Fred Dale lives in Jacksonville, Florida and is a Senior Instructor in the English Department at the University of North Florida. He is also Co-Instructor of Arts Inside, a program that teaches art and creative writing to jailed juveniles.


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