Tree Moss

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.