from my friend, Regina....
She thought she was funny giving me the word moss
but it jumped off the page and immediately typed itself
at the beginning of this poem. I remember visiting
her magical forest in the woods of Maine and walking
gingerly through the sacred mosses near her home.
The ground was spongy and soft and welcoming.
I bent down to run my hand over this natural carpet
and it whisked me away to childhood, to sitting
on an outcropping of gently growing mosses
halfway up Mt. Forist. A friend and I sitting
up there eating our snack and surveying the scene
below. My sister, Nancy, and her friend, Richard,
tiny as mice, chasing each other around his house.
My mom hanging miniature clothes on the line. Hot
Wheel cars heading north on Wight St. My brother,
Tim, on the porch lining his army men up. We are royalty
overlooking our queendom with our fannies on comfy
moss. Back in Maine, I raised my hand to my nose
and smelled the earthy scent of memory. Then, we tiptoed,
so as not to disturb their growing, from the shade
back out to the sunshine and continued our walk.
I had a feeling this day and that day would turn up
in a poem, as so much of my life does, but it took
a little four-letter word to jolt it out of me.