On the Moss

[First draft of a poem from July]

 

A dark red ant crawls unevenly

over the uneven green ground, by

the soft white skin on my arm.

A pool of water collects between

An undulation in the moss.

They’re like trees, and…

Up! The bird feeder,

with its windows,

and the ground below:

islands of moss, scattered seeds,

and the creatures above,

watching me intently, waiting for me

to stomp away, leaving their feeding grounds clear.

 

But I linger and feel my feet on the softness,

my eyes passing over the leaves and spaces between,

and not seeing. The drops on my shoulders

stream slowly down as I pace,

and finally touching my toes on the hard cold surface,

leaving, undefended, the feast under the feeder.

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