Gathering Moss
By chance the stone
settled near water—or
water chanced on the stone.
Just the two of them,
water, and the stone
which later would break into pieces.
And then came
the rolling moss.
The stones gathered it and abraded.
So many greens took up
the offer of stillness.
In clefts of stone steps,
between field stones of walls
moss spun its mortar,
the tiny knots of its weave.
When the stones moved next
they were smaller
and their fall was cushioned
by a dense olive plush.
On your own sleek back
it rubs its nap like a muzzle
quietly breathing
into your hair the measure
of its humble pulse.
Feet sink in deeper.
Perhaps nearby there are
irises nodding in collusion.
You are lulled and know
that moss goes on—
for this bed that tightens
its grip on the mouths of stones
and tells you its story, green in color,
of time and destruction,
holding us together.
JILL GONET’s poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, Gettysburg Review, New England Review, and Agni, among others. Read more.