Moss

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Could one have a memory 

of a life never lived? 


Mist clinging to my pores,

dew trickling down my cheek,

my body sinks

deep into the moss beneath.


Willows sway gently above the swamp,

light seeping slyly through foliage,

the gleam of a salamander’s skin.


Fairy inkcaps sprout unbidden

from decaying logs,

a hidden home for earwigs and slugs

raising their family in the dark.


Enshrouded and sodden as my soul,

these creatures, knowing,

soothe more deeply than

humans hands ever could.


If so, how could they be

but a memory

of a life never lived…





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