Not All That’s Mossed Is Stone
Here in the wooded corner
of Life and Death,
with ringed precipitous
divides
of interlocutory
travails
I know not
all
that's mossed is stone,
the shadow side of my
arm
grows more lovely with
time
When I gaze into
the great
division
without a purposeful intent,
this is when I play
host
to monarch butterflies,
as these shaded arms
stretch upward
declaring their naked
imperfections,
winding upward to
the sun,
to cradle robins
who dive within them
to cast bets
with passing cousins...
The birds are all discussing now
where and when life will
flourish,
like the budding of my branches,
as doe cautiously
venture out
into the mossy dew
of morning
Sighting spongy spores
popping their buttons
while wood nymphs
roll round grass knolls...
Blowing bubbles, they
giggle gayly
along the current
of winding creeks
Tricky turkey come our way,
and trot us
through the dark, and squishy
liquids
towards magical moss beds
which spring us up
into the treetops
where we perch til
dusk descends
Here in the wooded corner
of Life and Death,
with ringed precipitous
divides
of interlocutory
travails
I know not
all
that's mossed is stone,
the shadow side of my
arm
grows more lovely with
time
© May 28, 2020
Bunny Villaire
Mavia Villaire
Ann Marie Villaire