Creeping Moss

Elinor Ann Walker

By my pond 

each June, green

caps the stones. 

Offshoots carry

tiny spores aloft, 

held in capsuled

mouths until 

released. I imagine 

fairy forests. 

I’m too old 

for that. Still, 

I want to wander 

through, pat 

the moss like 

a soft chaise, 

invite someone 

to sit. Imagine 

velvet, a surface 

where fingers 

intertwine like 

moss clasps 

its rock, rhizoids, 

clinging roots. 

I wouldn’t ask 

for much if

anyone held on,

wrapped with 

me in colonies 

of green. Moss 

has everything

it needs to spread; 

all bryophytes

require is a bit 

of rain or wind.

ELINOR ANN WALKER holds a Ph.D. in English from the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and prefers to write outside. Read more.