maybe the written word is like moss,
growing everyplace in the forest
that the eye can’t see
unless it is still, and careful…
and the more words i write
the more dirt i make,
soft green tendrils curling
in the shaded forest light
under ferns,
sitting atop mounds and mountains
and reaching around trees,
perched on logs:
afloat on a windspoken rain
drifting down a trickling stream
to be planted subplanted and transplanted
only picked fresh to make a bed
or to offer a drink of caught rainfall;
going where it is allowed to grow old.
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