Monday, November 2, 2009

Moss





Moss

How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks?—
imagine,

greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough?—

a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.

5 comments:

Jasmine said...

Beautiful poem. Thank you for your kind commet today. I'm looking forward to seeing your work on the Creative Astrology course. You will defiitely outshine me, I can't draw for toffee.

Delphyne said...

I hardly think I will outshine anyone, Jasmine! I draw stick figures, but we'll see what comes up during the 10 days. All mysterious inner workings will reveal themselves!

xoxo

Jasmine said...

Theres a whole art gallery devoted to stick figures in Manchester and it inspired the song 'matchstick men'!

Delphyne said...

Hahaha! That is so funny - an art gallery devoted to stick figures! Perhaps, then, I have a chance to become a featured "artist" there!

Jasmine said...

http://manchesterblog.metro.co.uk/2009/06/dancing-matchstick-men-at-the-lowry.html

The artist and gallery are named Lowry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnRX6_Txpaw