Moss

Inside

the broken bottle’s throat

and the white glass jar

that once held some healing unguent—

moss has grown,

making a green cushion

for the roots of wintergreen

with its tiny red berries;

making

out of dappled light,

a faint rustle of air,

an accidental splash of rain,

and the pulse

of its own invincible cells

living and dying

in their ancient, nearly audible

and undoubtedly musical

rhythm

a thimbleful

of absolutely new

and nourishing

Earth. 

Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems, XIV: 3, Spring 2011