Tree Moss
At night
under the mossy trees,
when the thin green felt
is held by darkness,
I see the silhouettes of lace.
My grandmother used to make,
Heirloom lace, Broomstick lace,
delicate and fine.
Slow work.
Morning comes.
The sea air kisses the trees
and wraps them in fog-wool
and damp desire.
And lace, pale green,
nourished by mist
blooms from tree crotch and branches.
Swaying,
slow nests of moss
(knit from whisper and shadow and dream)
begin as all life begins,
in the embrace
of dampness.
Photos and words are mine.
